Treasure Island

Diana Rosser


Desert sands


Invisible, amidst grains of sand;
blinding heat beads sweat that rivers run
from furrowed brow to hollow hands
that wipe along the sting that lands
on skin stretched beneath blazing sun.

Each and every way the warm wind blows
shards of glass swirl into heaving mounds
that shift and change the way to go.
A moving sea that dips and throws
unsteady feet on to drifting ground.

How is direction to be embraced,
when all that can be seen is endless,
desert marked by displacing face.
Where travelled footprints leave no trace
and all around barren emptiness.

Submitted: Friday, August 03, 2012
Edited: Wednesday, August 22, 2012

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  • Felicity Slaughter (9/30/2012 10:44:00 PM)

    Wow. Incedibly descriptive. It has a sort of late 19th century feel. Great choice of words, it makes me look at desert in an entirely new way. Poetry at its best! ! (Report) Reply

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