4 Beach Litter Slipped through the fingers of my writing-hand Already in these dozen days or so — The grove of winter trees, intaglio Complete with twigs, carved in the hard smooth sand (While the waves keep rushing in to land In the old uproar) by the trickling backflow, And running in fog, and the young pair who go Down beach apart, I see the fellow stand With his back to her while she with her eyes Downward walks this way, that way — coming in I pass and hear her humming cheerfully, And the cold light one dusk far out at sea And the time I finished fast as if to win, Some girl’s clear laugh away down the beach the prize: 10