I am

barefoot

on a far tide line

sand rippled

spread

with estuary shells

with oystercatchers

soft where rills run down

or the sea pools

behind a half-sunk stone

or a mooring chain

I am

watching

moored yachts

swinging to the tide turn

above their sunken reflections

angled lines of cirrostratus

echoed below the horizon

in the mirror gloss sea

of the estuary mouth

I am

beside a stranded yellow buoy

looking across the river

to the town's reflection

below its church

its stained glass prayers

raised to the morning sun

I am

tideless

turning to retrace my steps

lost to the advancing sea

following the water edge

stepping over

pink and yellow floats and

the moorings of yachts

stranded at odd angles

on the wet sands, waiting

I am

drifting back

as the water reaches

the Dreadnought

behind its seaweed hung ellipse

of mooring line

running to the shallows

and a heavy chain

still visible in the sand

and more oystercatchers

bobbing in the sea-river ripples

or working the seaweed sand

lift off

and land again 

behind me

I am

tide chased

as I reach the stone jetty

where at its foot the receding sea

had sucked a channel

with the sands curving down to

pools against its lowest stones

just beginning to fill

with the returning tide

I am

working my way back to the slipway

across warm dry-powder sand

that has not known the sea

intimately for a while

to leave the beach

to brush my feet

free of sand