The sands of time
trickle to late summer.
this empty bed of beach tucked up for winter.
Soon, the shore will be piled high
with Ayrshire blankets of sand,
rumpled by a receding tide;
at its height, watered-silk sheets will spread slickly
to dunes' lumpy pillows,
surf trimming them thickly with lace.
Awaiting the autumn,
the sleeping warrior snuggles
beneath his duvet of rosy pink clouds;
eiderdown feathers fluttering free
to fly south.
But winter isn't here yet:
overtired youngsters rub sleep from their eyes,
demanding one last game
before the Sandman comes.