Dust

It gathers around the house.
Stacked in all the corners.
You might not see that if you are homeless.
It’s along the pavements instead.
Blowing up into people’s faces.
As we watch the passers by.
Skating across the ground with the leaves.
Or up, up into the sky.
Twinkling there like fool’s gold.
You can write your name in dust, so I’m told.
Helping you out with your spelling.
It’s particles of us, our own skin.
Just as a snake shedding.
When we come to the end of our lives.
We are all grains of dust.
Dancing through the air or mixed into sand from a gust.
Or swimming out amongst fishes, deep in the sea.
Or perhaps we’ll be in an urn on a shelf.
Watching other dust around us.
I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

- Andrew Horner