They have lighted a bonfire on the beach beyond The old shellfish midden - the young ones jiving and Stamping their feet in the flicker of the flames, Barefoot, their heads tilted back, Utterly absorbed. The gaunt man watching Thinks - 'Hooligans' - and his wife - 'How heavy This drugged weight that I must carry Always uphill . . . ' Some will go Home later, but others two by two will vanish Into the dunes, wearing their jeans and sandals - And like a slow vapour from the ground, Or silence between words, the hunters who made that Midden of shells with a different colour of absence Possess the widening flesh. A child conceived out of these hot embers Will hear the surf's voice like a stumbling language And be a masterless man.