mussels

The night time sky a trawler with it's net the moon, catching ghosts, unable to locate an echo of my future as it faded away. We threw our net into the waters below, I wonder if the sea aches for a heart, it could sigh with the yawning winds, on this my last trip for a final haul of mussels. Spirits mistake water for glass, they pour sand demanding, form, mass, a frame for an hourglass. I am but a grain of sand blown into the eyes of time, resigned to heaven's tides until they reach the shore. Our hoard of mussels tastes the drumming rain, my scarecrow heart is warning of future terrain as he yearns to explore the waters of the sun to find an hourglass filled with suns.