Some Question

Small Woman
puts her shallow footprints
in the shale-coloured sand - wind
winds her long long strands
in its fingers - dark sky
blue beyond grey
as it hinges on twilight - the
lingering sunlight as cold
as a clay tomb.

The Minute
has such room for
change - transformation - sirens
signalling each station of its
cross into night - its
shift - the cold salty lifting of
stars - of the moon

all
held
in the
hands
of some
question.