we are little things

that dance in the mornings

james

by the light of the phone….

large rocks

fenced off yet

maybe i will

creep through

and touch

one quiet day

one stone

one finger touch

a ritual

who knows what lies underneath

here the land goes up and down

water drains

into rivers

undeniably tracing honesty in the air

with one finger

pointing.

it came clear later..

an old story remembered
that warm afternoon while all were playing

relaxing.

the hunted tried not to sleep

there

grass

holds the sand.

sand holds

the grass.


have you walked the dunes

hollowed path, coconut gorse.


have you found contentment there?


have you sat the sun, black crow bird,

have you closed your eyes at that

within, enjoyed that

without?


the tin hut is still empty.

imagine you a pirate, with stripey trousers
and a large black patch

on imagining things
sometimes scare myself silly