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Hazel Hall
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.
disappointed in God
and in authority
I find it so necessary to have
that which is greater
sand and sea and every foot
of this road
where the sea is now
we would meet
out in the sand
where that busy and sorrowful
answer to questions
was most clear
we broke up leaving it
so painful a thing
to be sunk
with silver plates serving us sand
a gentleman tells me
the meaning of dog
walls secure the night
and call every fox
to take the air
time papers over our grief
our ways of getting by
who is seized and for a quarrel
cut all over the back
the servants they dally with
doing what hands will do
we must fall and everything else
go to sand
I dress myself down
done with all the toss and spoil
hold to loss
like a sand house
taking you home who are
less dead than me
my last days
shall be underground
trees covered with earth
branches of black water
in my pocket
sand
and sudden hands
over every mouth
in the city of the dead
the poor cannot have any bell
ring for them
we fear that public sand
fear being forced to lie there
like a little warren
making sand the first sea
was you heart
hardly seen
carving a body into
the exact world
the morning I have off
I tend to my sand home
wipe and clean my thin ice
I half live
in the looking glass
fair as sand
I turn to follow the light
that mad thing
having met my corpse
sand is good and simple
the only thing like a thing
since the wine bar oysters
brought me to bed