A saturated paper ball
has been flung against this wall.
The soggy matter, as a solvent, remained
dried, then crisped, on the face of brick;
droplets from it were sponged by the cement
which, over time, eroded, fragmented.
I pick up fallen wall-chips from the tarmac below,
thumb them until they crumble into grains.
Through my fingers they filter
onto the slate-hued gravel below.
Compiled, the grain now lies — a sand pile on the floor.
I place my palm onto it — it preserves dents.
I pull my hand away.
Wind blows away the remains from my fingers
they fall back onto the pavement, and skid over it.
RICHY CAMPBELL 