The Sands

That wildly indignant flame,

bursting in its fetters,

has now burnt to a solitary crisp.

I have seen the oceans

surge and die.

I have heard the winds

howling on the skin of the earth

for their frail purpose

come to end.

Drifting through woodland

stark against the sunset sky:

Had I whispered of their lives

at the height of time,

perhaps they would now have come to know

a bloom such as no rigid earth

could offer, nor no poet tell.


White Sands