The Ebb Tide

The tide ebbs,
And leaves nothing.
I scan the beach
For bits of interesting flotsam;
Things that might sparkle in the sun,
And which, from a distance
Look promising.

I imagine rare jewels,
Or a twist of something golden in the sand,
And scamper after each,
To discover amid the tangle
Of fly swarmed detritus,
Only junk;
Uninspiring;
Worthless as the world.

It goes out a long way here;
Miles and miles of slime-mud,
A disturbing plane of nothingness.
How naked and alone,
At ebb tide,
I am revealled,
Void even of the illusion
Of my robes of idle fancy.

Is it true then?
That beneath the jolly roll
Of light-danced waves,
There is hidden nothing but the sly clams sucked deep,
And the rotting carcases of those
Who swam too near
A barren shore?