Dunes

Dunes

Wind blown white sand dunes
Dusted clouds flying behind them
As though they themselves were at sea
And sailing fast.
The tufted grasses people them in thrashing tattered groups.
Incessantly whispering amongst themselves,
'What's that? Who's here?' they say,
In their blind flailing.
But the footprints disappear in seconds
With the dry hiss of the wind.

hannah foot
2001