A small dust devil dances
Kicked by the breeze,
Under searing heat,
The landscape’s on fire,
Powered orange, bittersweet,
Mirage against dry grass
Where the wild horses play.
He rests on his porch
Watching the distance,
Searching,
Tired eyes
Burden by regret,
Spun by time.
There’s blood on his hands,
A labour’s hands,
From faces he’s tried to forget,
Moments of stretched shadows
Cast long ago,
Another time.
And now?
He’s done.
He grabs for his beer,
Warm in the heat,
The time worn table
Shows ring upon never ending ring,
He sits and waits in old denim,
His boots dusty,
His hands stiff,
Each day the same torment,
A delusion of life,
Watching God’s landscape
For his dark horse.
Mistyroads 