Low Tide At St. Andrews

(NEW BRUNSWICK) The long red flats stretch open to the sky, Breathing their moisture on the August air. The seaweeds cling with flesh-like fingers where The rocks give shelter that the sands deny; And wrapped in all her summer harmonies St. Andrews sleeps beside her sleeping seas. The far-off shores swim blue and indistinct, Like half-lost memories of some old dream. The listless waves that catch each sunny gleam Are idling up the waterways land-linked, And, yellowing along the harbour's breast, The light is leaping shoreward from the west. And naked-footed children, tripping down, Light with young laughter, daily come at eve To gather dulse and sea clams and then heave Their loads, returning laden to the town, Leaving a strange grey silence when they go,-- The silence of the sands when tides are low.