Blowing Sand

Once I lived 

in a world of

rock,

bed-rock, 

solid rock.

Blocks of rock

formed the borders

of my world,

square rocks,

round rocks,

rough rocks,

smooth rocks.

Domes of rock and thrones of rock,

limestone, sandstone,

granite and basalt –

rocks formed 

the centre 

of my world – 

centre, edges, all around

was rock,

bed-rock, solid rock, trusty rock:

you can depend on rock.

It’s good stuff!

Once I lived

in a world of

green –

of green and

brown and

flowery hues.

Grasses and bushes filled my world, 

reeds and flowers,

and tall leafed 

trees, 

lavender spikes

bright red sprouts;

deep rich 

soil with

worms and mites;

lush green life

set firmly 

on earth,

growing, dying

decaying, nurturing,

cycle of life, 

set firm 

in the deep

bed-rock.

You can trust in 

green!

It’s good stuff!

Now I live

in a world of

sand,

trickling sand,

blowing sand,

rocks eroded,

blocks all gone.

Sandstone crumbles

at a touch,

granite shatters

at a glance,

limestone leaches, 

basalt breaks

and all that

is left is

blowing sand.

Plants cannot grow 

on blowing sand;

I cannot stand

on blowing sand.

All that is solid,

all that is sure,

blows in the sunset,

blows in the air;

Can you depend on sand?

Is this good stuff?