There’s sand beneath the dreams of memory
Old pictures, voices, faces fade away
Washed out’s the place of every entry
Dumb walls of nothing wise to say.

High tides roam deep into the night like hunters
Behunting down all memory’s roses from the heart
There’s nothing to be said, gone is the last of mourners
Unpaid, betrayed, unwilling to depart.

If there’s a God, He should be guarding memories
But for Himself; and maybe some to please
The frozen heart of never light-seen babies
December roses, growing for their pain to ease.