Now in hourglass time my dust is running,
Sand out on Marram Hill and far the scuds,
Sail the seagull balanced sky ~
Buckthorn berry burns to holes,
The red end of its love,
Cries careless as breeze stirred hair,
These breezy and sandcastled days,
That flip and fly.
Here, now I stand in a sifting,
Watch the breakered start of curls,
High swift murmurings,
Loom grass fine in its whiskers,
Threatening the air.
What, here, shall pass,
What dune blown, fine boned skimmings,
After the bleach and scour?
Toe tied time in these feet shifting,
Abdicates the day, it’s vast horizon,
Skirt on the pendulous sun,
Threshed after the marram,
Scourged spine of evening,
Gathered silks of sedimentary eyes.
Here now, on Marram Hill,
In turnstoned strand,
Of the spindrift dreamed
And jetsamed days,
Attentive to sun I stand,
The eyes of time appraise,
Until the bulb is filled and still,
And cuts no sand on Marram Hilll.
I am a writer living in Yorkshire, England, recently retired from the teaching profession. I have always written and love poetry and have a large backlog of work. I have, through my own neglect had little published. I had four poems in a recent anthology: "Viral Verses," put together to raise funds for the NHS and am currently working with a sculptor writing poems to complement his work. I have a few collections on the go: "Norse Gods," "Box of Ochre," "Water Dancing with the Moon."