© Bruce Goodman 1 January 2015
Sometimes life is long and straight
With hidden corners
Horizons sinking to horizons
And unknown wildernesses.
Oh this wilderness can be barren
Brown dry sand roaring the
Ribbed lion ready to maul,
Ready to grapple with the Traveller,
To vanquish, then
Haunt away transfigured into a scoffing hyena.
For a flicker of a blossom,
There are blue eggshells and wattle.
There is cold water trickling down the laughing neck and hands,
And horizons linger before they drop.
But drop and I must follow;
Must keep the forty years of footprints covered with
Darkness in the sand;
Must grope, black and empty, down the long and straight,
And trample on blue-broken shells and withered petals.