Far away in a boat, someone wears a red shirt, a tiny stab in the pale sky.
Your three bodies form a curving shoreline, pink and brown sweaters, bare legs.
The beach glows grainy under the sun’s copper pressure, air the colour of tangerines. One of you is sleeping, the wind’s finger on your cheek like a tendril of hair.
Night exhales its long held breath. Stars puncture through.
At dusk you are a small soft heap, a kind of moss. In the moonlight, a boulder of women.
— Anne Michaels, ‘Women on a Beach’ from The Weight of Oranges
