from the horizon to within 50 yds of where I lie,
unless broken only by long lines of creamy rollers washing onto the white sand.
Away to the right, riding on the horizon close in shore, lye the supply ships, but for these the sea is empty. All the sky is palest blue deepening to orange round the sun.
There is no sound but the ceaseless crash of the rollers on the sands & now & then a faint rattle of chains from the horses. . .
Now the sun is nothing but a globe of molten gold