Sieving
I know about stars.
They’re far away
have nocturnal habits
and hide from the day,
and when I lie
hair rasping a pillow of sand
fingers sieving cool grains,
shrinking clumps in each hand,
I can watch them for hours.
Those that drop from black cliffs
falling into forever.
Those that glide over our organic blip
and those that sit still
years above the sky.
Fingers sieving cool sand
the insatiable wet of the world close by.
Neil Fawcett lives in Stockport and writes poems in a scruffy shed at the bottom of his garden. When not in Stockport you’ll find him in Greece, just wandering about. www.neilfawcettpoet.com