The sands of time

Autumn comes lapping round my ankles
like an incoming tide

It is a Sunday in August
and I stand barefoot in the sands of time

An unexpected breeze touches my mind – 
flames in my brain set by an arsonist:
parts of me are untouched
but in the distance they are rewriting the passports,
trying to keep me out of Eden

Meddling with the seasons,
burning the boats
comes naturally to them, but you just laugh – 
you with your multilingual hair
and naked ideas

God smiles at you
and touches the future
as if nothing really mattered

Which of course 
is the opposite 
of the truth