Over an ash-fawn beach fronting a sea which keeps Rolling
and unrolling, lifting The green fringes from submerged rocks On its way in, and, on its way out Dropping them again, the light Squanders itself, a saffron morning Into masses. The map-like interplay Of sea-light against shadow And the mottled close-up of wet rocks Drying themselves in the hot air Are lost to us. Content with our portion, Where we ask ourselves, js the end of all this Variety that follows us? Glare Pierces muslin; its broken rays Hovering in trembling filaments Glance on the ceiling with no more substance Than a bee's wing. Thickening, these Hang down over the pink walls In green bars, and, flickering between them, A moving fan of two colours, The sea unrolls and rolls itself into the low room.