Denting the edge of a sandflat,
footprints pool with water cold as blood.
Light ripples the sapphire bay.
Through a muffle of haze
a bouy tells its shoal like a soul
lost in its shell of skin.
That distant tolling frays
on the dune-grass that slices sand
above the highest tidal wrack.
A northerly ticks grains against green blades,
braids sunlight, salt, and the cry of a single gull.
At the whiskery touch of wind
he turns and sees his footprints
lead to him.