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