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Sand

Sand is at the door, Its progress through the keyhole slow: I raise both hands to hold it back before Sand inches, grain by grain, along the hallway floor: Among the slippers, dunes begin to grow: Sand is at the door Of every cupboard, every drawer Brims, postcards on the mantelpiece no longer show: I raise both hands to hold it back before My deepest rooms become extensions of the shore: Now, where the goldfish used to come and go Sand is: at the door, In books, on pillows, more and more Sand pours towards me: with one, whispered 'no' I raise both hands to hold it back before My waist, my chest, my neck, my jaw And mouth succumb to sand, its undertow. . . Sand is at the door. . .

I raise both hands to hold it back before

Stephen Knight

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