THE BOY ON THE BEACH

The boy on the beach wears no shoes,

Feels the grit and wet of the sand

under his feet, in his toes.

He walks between sea and land.

The incoming tide sweeps around him,

hisses, pauses, slides back

scrubs the marks of his digging.

Lugworm and limpet for bait.

At high tide he reels out his line

and waits for the bob of the float, a bite.

It is chill when the sun goes down,

Red and huge, sinking away.

The boy on the beach turns for home with his fish.

The boy on the beach is me.

                             Max Frost

                             5 March 01