with the dying day before me
and water barely to my knees
I am among a gaggling clutter
of clinging children dragging at me
while I stand solid to watch
the yellow-white of cloud lines
streaking from the deeper oranges
and reds of the westernmost sky
with its ball of vibrant vermillion
and the silhouette of promontory trees
stark black but glowing
from the fire lit behind them
with the liquid sun at my back
I am turned to the east where
the cavorting bodies of bathers
between myself and dry land are shaded
with the rich and changing hues
of a descending day and in vivid blue
on the shore sits a youth with cropped hair
and small sideburns that I can see
clearly despite the coloured light
I have to look hard and closely
before I can tell it is not a crimson boy in blue
that it is you sitting on the sand and watching me
as I write and remember
there is a red burn still spotting my eyes
from the fading sun off the beach at Mentone
sand grits between my toes and
I can taste salt when I lick at my lips and hold
the remains of an image of molten colours
but you are at home and vivid in blue
~