Wednesday, April 11, 2012

As little children do..

Under the desert moon
I walked the dry skeletal land
stumbling over black contorted
bones of rock.

Barren as a brickyard in the dark:
only ants and spiders moved across the clinkered ground.
In the torchlight spider eyes
reflected golden green.

A soft wind teased the tent,
the fabric skin breathed slowly out and in,
leaving secret whispers in the air.

Cicadas in the wadi sung
and on the very edge of hearing
distant waves were booming in the night.

And I am somewhere in the dark
above a nameless wadi
on an arid peninsula
in a foreign land.

No rhyme or reason to it all,
just the deep, deep draw of solitude
that needs to be alone
to learn to wonder once again
as little children do.

(c) A McN 

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