Frequencies of Light

The sea is drawn back:
a blind from a window.
The sands are amber and open,
half a mile or more
to the water’s edge.

We walk away from ourselves
over sand that feels like new snow,
now like corrugated iron;
brittle shells snap painfully
beneath bare feet.

This will be land for just a little longer.

We stop, tune in
to the silence.

Not even gulls come here
where there is nothing
but frequencies of light.

Here the world exists
on the principle
of the horizontal:

a strip of saffron,
of periwinkle,
of ultramarine.

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