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Everything I draw to life
begins with sand, a line
two points from yours to
mine, in waves we reach
and touch or fall apart, the
walls we build in times
between to fortress heights
and castle beauty reach
dividing me and you from
them or worse, my self alone
exiled, throwing stones that
once were bits of coloured
glass through which I saw you
spectral pure, a rose, and now
the grit of stiffened jaw my only
means, it seems, to breach
through walls that once were
lines of poetry we wrote
and read upon the sand.


© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Photograph by Lisa Bobechko, 2010