Across the estuary the grey-blue Features of the distant shore are gathered Into pale ink-blobs hung twixt sea and sky, Disconnected, meaningless; a mirage Of the hot June day when an eastern air moves over the warm and shallow water. My sail-boat rests on the shell-strewn mudflat Which has a varied slate-brown, grey-green hue, According to the slant of light from sun Or clear sky. I sit and watch one crab Chase another in a nearby runnel. Across the flats men dig for lugworm bait And bare-foot cocklers softly squelch the mud. Two hours more and we will take the flood.