A Sketch.
The shadows of the ships
Rock on the crest
In the low blue lustre
Of the soft and inrolling tide.
A long brown bar at the dip of the sky
Puts an arm of sand in the span of salt.
The lucid and endless wrinkles Draw in, laps and withdraw.
Wavelets crumble and white spent bubbles
Wash on the floor of the beach.
Rocking on the crest
In the low blue lustre
Are the shadows of the ships.

—J. R. Hastings.

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