The 8 Track Boogie Band - Handful of Sand

A shadow runs across a shipwrecked shore
Stumbling once but goes on for more
There's a glint of gold in his eye and how it blinds
He doesn't see problems, don't feel pain
Greed's a natural anaesthetic to the driving rain
As black-winged Stilts wade by
He nears the prize

He's at the ship, inside the hold
Grasping blindly for the gold
Breathing hard, thinking fast
Clutching whatever he can
A handful of sand

As dusk descends by the water's edge
The Redshanks yelp, he's so short of breath
Calling Jesus Christ though he's no religious man
A trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth
Too numb to move, too weak to shout
Not a soul to hear, even if he could

With changing tide and biting cold
He's slipping down, past the gold
Breathing weak, sinking fast
Clutching whatever he can
A handful of sand

Amidst the storm a shard of light
Frames the scene in pitch black night
The final breath, the outstretched hand . . .

© Chris Moule 2011