Sand, Tears And Time Poem by David Taylor

Standing, still, and
with a handful of dry sand
I close my fingers tightly,
tightly round the yielding
granules held vice like in my hand
and tightening to stop the
mass escape of so many
miniscule grains
through gaps in ringed fingers.
The harder I grasp the more
they find release
and signify the passing of time,
of times lost in passing
and as my tears fall,
fall onto my hands
each dropp mingles with the sand
the sands of times lost
and make them stick,
sticking to my hand
not lost but sand adhering
as alone I stand
even though their appointed time
is now past.
Would it have been better
if without the tears
they had been freed
out of my reach and grasp
without the fetters of warm liquid
tears which adhere them
to these hands
until returning to the sea
they are washed and cleansed from me.