Tomorrow we shall sleep
when the surf has receded to a distant roar
and my pebbles cease churning, grinding–
drawn and flung, drawn and flung
and the sun is arcing high
with the heat and release that stops all work
and wrack bakes on stones cracking, drying–
torn and wrung, torn and wrung.
Eyes closed we shall drift
on horizons so distant we can’t say where
but sand is soft, forgiving and fine—
dust from stone, dust from stone.
But tonight as we lie
refusing the last-ness in every thought
the noise, the turmoil, the silence, the sigh–
sleep is wrong, sleep is wrong.
2012 © Andie Davidson