In the scarred land
Under the wind-haunted skies
By the village that is marked on no map,
With no history, no tribe, no country.
Where the wind wails,
Through the worn
Windows of mud brick,
Past the edge
Of the gap
In the barrier
Wall,
Shining paws
Fall
In the shadowed circle.
Silver tails
Flick, flick.
Let us go quickly
Now, to follow
The call
Of the black plateau
Where the rocks stand
Tall
In the billowing
Grass. It is better to go
To see the wide, white jaws
Of the wolf than to sit, sipping
Bitter stones in this village
Of empty
Eyes,
Than to sit by the torn
Stumps of corn
That crackle
Like pale scales
In the dry-finned wind.
Let us go quickly
Now, and gladly
Into the courage
Of the eye
Of the wolf, into
The brave-riven flame
Of the night with no name.
Where only the lone
Call
Of the owl-hooded harrier
Echoes
From rock to rough-rued rock
In the soul of the dawn,
In the song of the stone,
In the winged wind
That will fly through the open sky
And forever be gone.
Written around 2003
Photo: © Thomas Barrat / dreamstime.com