by Nick Gisburne
She sees them in the sands around her feet.
Excited, tiny people skip and spin.
Their movements, unaffected by the heat,
As dizzying, as raucous, as their din.
They merge and melt, but stretch and pull apart,
Within her reach, yet always, just, too far.
With every encore others swiftly start,
Impossible, but, always, there they are.
She finds herself surrounded, on her knees,
The passion-painted faces closer, clear.
Their voices, now the buzz of angry bees,
Besiege her with a thick and sticky fear.
Among them, she, in dreams she understands,
Surrenders to the dancers in the sands.
