The sun is a golden orb above the line of the horizon
That beams a stream of molten fire to the shore, where the blue ocean Laps against concrete walls and grey-white sand.
The tide is turning, day is dawning, and the beach-front stirring With bird-life, and with early-morning walkers on the strand. The sky hangs cloudless overhead, pale blue blazed with gold. In the city in the west, grey wisps of fog unfold.
All else is still. The city sleeps beyond, its metal bridges Rising from among its buildings in grave grandeur.
The bay is first to waken, pristine until it loses