We chose dust in a show of reverence.
We could’ve said partite, or micro-grit,
but settled instead on a word as light as air,
that hisses between teeth before tongue
clicks it short like the latch of a door.
Its sound-fellows echo what it might have been:
lust, the ghost of precious metal or stone, or
rust, decay of bridges, washed raw by seawater.
Dusk glimmers too – the closing window
when dream takes watch, relieving weary day.
All are heard as we blow or brush the dirt
off some desired thing and conjure a cloud
of dust. Wonder, for a moment, what this dust
once was: the walls of a city, the mast of a ship,
a great man, a great tree. Or something of you,
cast off, content to wait till the end of time
on a windowsill, making of world its hourglass.
Ed Limb grew up in Nottingham and studied English at university, spending more time in theatres than lectures. He currently lives in North London and writes around his work. He is glad to have had pieces published in Under the Radar, Cake Magazine, Dream Catcher, and Sideways Poetry.