In her head’s the sound of waves,
As they lash relentlessly
Against the land,
Each spitting their foam
Onto the beach,
To dribble between the grains of sand,
And across the blank canvas of that sand,
A single track
Of footsteps become imprinted,
There to be eroded
On the next tide,
Their existence lost or barely hinted,
In her head’s the sound of trees,
As buffeted by the wind
Their leaves dance and rustle,
While birds cling to the swaying platforms
Of the branches,
A brief respite as on their forages they hustle,
And from within the shelter of those leaves,
The tiny aviators face their daily challenge,
Then hurl themselves headlong
Towards the sand,
Where survival or death
Hang in the balance.
Diane Scantlebury
