Poetgal

The beach was sandy; I expected stones -
So careless was my memory of the place -
And, leaning on the rail, the squalling moans
Of seagulls right above, I turned to face
A group there playing ball, refusing still
To let the middle-evening ebb away:
Ignoring tiredness and the dead light chill,
Their figures strangely featureless and grey.
My gaze took in the plain of hard wet sand -
Rippled here and there by ribs of sea -
And looking up where water left the land,
The flat horizon stopped, but seemed to me
To bow before a perfect dome of sky,
So large, I wondered how it fit my eye.