Lonely Spirits

They stand like spirits, tall and stalwart against the wind, slender as a whisper, and strong. They lay scattered, tossed, as seeds from a sower's hand would fall. Yellow-brown, faded from green, bleached white again and dull with age; weathered faces atop slender necks planted in the sand. They are maidens, golden hair streaking back in the gale, grey tattered gowns flapping and whipping against their tiny frames. They hiss. Lonely spirits, they do not see around them, eyes only straight forward towards the dune that blocks the sea. They do not see the others, the army they combine to form. Could they but turn their streaming eyes from ahead, they would see beside them a million others who share their burden. Sisters, women, fragile as reeds yet iron of will. Before time they stood, guarding their shore and their sad secrets. And here they stand still, clinging to life in this all but barren landscape. If I could see the well they tap to find their strength, I would join them here in their eternal wait, plant myself beside these ghosts and turn my eyes and thoughts toward the deep that creeps close to mock and spray at their feet.