A sea of red sand

laps gently at an

island of white bones.

Exposed for the first time

in decades by the wind

that shifts sand. Builds

and tears down mountains.

Lying amongst the bleached

bones is a scrap of leather

a belt buckle and the heel

of a boot.

Under the head

protected from the wind

is a tuft of brown hair.

The teeth remain in place.

Locked into a macabre

grin of derision.

A sand goanna, tongue

flicking out to taste

his world, wanders by

to investigate.

Nothing here to be had.

He goes off in search of

something that comes to

him on the hot wind of

death and promised meals.

The wind swings around to

the west and grows stronger

with the smell of carrion  

and dry waterholes.

The waves of sand slowly

begin to cover the bones

again, in their dry red blanket.

~Requiescat in pace~

Taken from the collection Dry Bones with permission from the author.