Spilt out, like a parchment unrolled,
A paler forearm, a walkway.
Flounced sea-froth so softly
Lain, like a bridal train;
We act as pageboys, ambling
Dazed, towards the altar.
The sun, retiring, falls like snow:
Weightless but with sure intention.
Watch it drag drown the horizon
In its sweeping, sipping, pulling.
We are lulled to pursue its fall,
As if affected by the tug.
And again at night, you walk
Until the moon feels at home,
Until the painted sand,
Which so boldly reimagines
The colours of the sky,
Becomes all you’re looking for.