Idyllic

The whisper of the sea is the only sound
As it exhales its lacy foam on white sand
Behind us, two sets of footprints
Ahead, none at all
Our Eden and ours alone
For a week or two or a year or three

A lapping chirrup and fishy scent
Alerts us to a loggerhead
With eyes like tiny polished pebbles
And burnished shell a rock of ages
Then flippers dive and splash out to sea
In all this blue, how tiny are we?