This wall of nothing, all over.
Back then it meant a lot.
On the beach in the winter afternoons
we were things waiting to be seen,
voices in their own pulsing desert.
Our cloaks in the damp, reservoirs of whispers,
our gaze in the early dark busy with pearls.
And the wet sand, our footprints, our words,
invisible bees working on shining swords.
Since the fog has come powerfully back with all its Venetian lapping sandbar mood I can't resist digging up poems about "This wall of nothing..." and I have so many of them that I can keep "fogging" for days.