Sands

My days are like sands; colourless, Each matched to each, unerringly They drift. The salt bleach of a sea Has washed them clean and lustreless; The teeth of rock on ragged strands Have ground them to an even grey, And one wind blows them a one way. But Oh, the slow making of sands.

All is here; forgotten things Mix with the unforgettable. Granite blends with tinted shell. And nothing so stable that it clings To its stability. Had there Been more of marble, more of gold. The sands would hide in their grim hold Nothing more wise, nothing more fair. But Oh, the slow making of sands.

Grain on grain of even grey, Slowly they drift in the one way Covering the wreck that stands Against my beach of life. One mast Cuts at the sky, the hull is fast In sand — the slow-made sands that pull With the wind . . . covering . . And leaving every broken thing Hushed and coldly beautiful.