Not There

The waves will be up and
running high now, pushed
by the wind's hands,
curved, towering, white
cascades crashing the beach
as it greys in the fading
light.

The dunes will be waving
now, pushed and pulled
by the wind's hands, their
green heads tossing.

The beach will be singing
now, sandgrains blown
to smooth all furrows,
erase all footprints,
hissing at the drive of
the sea, the dunes their
destiny.

I am not there now,
breathing salt, body
washed and crashing,
my hair tossed; my
footprints and the
impress of my hands
erased by movement
towards the grass.

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