Quicksand - Poetry Please - Beach

Quicksand at Night

The sand is inanimate. It has no soul.

Its speckles of silica and shell swirl

In the gritty Moon-drawn tide,

Rise and fall without pity

According to laws that govern us all.

The wide brown Bay, when the sea has left

Its grooves and whorls,

Settles.

Only gravity, the Earth's spin

And the aimless withering wind

Contend to shape this landscape.

But stand on the wet sand

On a still night until you feel the tug

Telling your feet, your legs, to move

And free themselves...

Stand under motionless clouds and listen:

No wind, no roar, no lap.

Through runnels and rills and rivulets

And between the grains of sand

The tails and hem of the tide

Withdraw at the Moon's command.

Listen as it drains...

At your feet the tiny clicks and ticks

Of each grain as it unsticks, shifts and sticks,

And from the bowl of the Bay

The same, faint, galactic background noise

As cockles close and the bristleworm burrows.

The quicksand's grip and suck is not

The pull of a jealous lover. Its cold

And downward haul is not

The thrall of despair.

The sand is inanimate.

It has no soul.