Cicadas sing beside the water’s edge.
Across the sand and water comes that wedge
Of hot and intermittent sound to break
Minute apart from minute as they take
Their slow way past the olive trees and sea,
Their slow way past the olives and past me.
Only cicadas with a rhythmic sound
Mark the sweet hours drifting, drifting.
Only cicadas in the silver olives
Mark the soft sands drowsily shifting.
The world is sand and water; the world is heat;
Day is a long morning; night
Comes sudden-soon; night hangs above the water,
Above the olives, like a light.
Nothing can matter here: not even love,
Nor sharp worms waiting underground—
Only the heat and sleep, and the clear light,
The eternal sea, and the sea’s sound.