The Broken Siesta.

Beneath the red pohutukawa's bough
The sand lies sheltered from the noon-day sun;
So cool and softly grey, with ripples, even now
As chaste as when the early tide
Had newly gone; and wavelets, one by one
Sigh faintly, as they fall aside
To creep, unheeded, to the sea again.
O'er the wet sand, through the flying spray,
Which, rainbow-tinted, hangs upon the sun,
Two figures race; their laughter drowns the day
In noisy merriment, while grey sand falls
In careless showers ‘til dancing feet have won
The precious shade. And Youth, the tireless—care-free—calls
A gay defiance to this quiet and dreaming place.

—Olive Igglesden.