Robert Wyatt
"The Sight of the Wind"

We could hear it
before the shutters were open,
the wind on the beach.

Then we found miniature sand dunes
on the concrete of the balcony
and a dead leaf zig-zagging,
scratching an urgent message in Sanskrit
before hitching a ride on a frisky gust.
A plastic bag caught by a rail
rearing to go, in such a flap
we set it free
to join a page of last week's news
racing high above the undulating beach,
and the invisible flying sand
casting a fast moving shadow
stroking the beach clean.
Yesterday's footprints vanished,
replaced by smooth rippling wave formations,
a copy of the sea.
No one walking,
not even the dogs.

A day for the rubbish to dance.