How sand piles up, here at my door.
Strong winds carry countless skipjack granules,
bouncing like beach-balls, from the shore.
Checked by picket fences yet marching still,
there is no way to hold it back.
Reaching through keyholes, it creeps over sill
then once inside spreads everywhere.
Infiltrates the floorboard gaps. Drowns the joists.
Skin-scratching, smothers my armchair.
It mounts and mounts: recasts staircase as dune,
gets swept in corners, swallows light.
Sand-blind, its inert mouth becomes cocoon.
Should the bell be buried by this grit,
guests are warned – 'bring spade'. Mine waits in the hall:
soon I must dig my own exit.
v.2015
Pushing Out The Boat #16, 2021
