18 November 2009


the usual ride through urban sprawl
gives way to barren rocks, sparse scrub
a wilderness parched - no soul, no heart

over horizon a welcome change of scene
and pace - so slow we’ve stopped
the road before us awash with bleating goats

no care in the world, no haste, no hurry
the boy guides his tribe – stuck we worry
with nothing to do but take in the view

glimmering in shimmering light
harsh sun reflects on leaves of olive trees
undersides gleam like silver foil snagged on the breeze

beneath their shady awning
sudden movement catches our eye
a wagtail rolling in the dust, relief from heat

he hops between trees
his wagging tail a comic figure - we toss crumbs
charmed by his stylish dive for dinner

flock moves, at last clear path ahead
must leave distractions behind
the boy raises his stick at us - we smile

wheels kick up dust
we're on our way again
we will still make it - albeit - late


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