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by Jamie Hill |
The mercury says ninety-four,
The air is very dry,
Two feet of sand upon the ground,
Cloudy is the sky.
The whipping wind whirls about,
The corners of my house.
Whipping faster, even faster,
Where e'er a soul may roam.
The sand is thick within this place,
Within the air, upon my face,
My face and hands are caked
with sand,
And all is barren in this land.
Death is waiting, ever waiting,
Upon this barren land of mine,
Nothing's living, nothing's growing,
Nothing's crawling but the time.
All is silent, deathly silent,
'Cept the wind which whirls
and moans.
I look around, and desolation,
Surrounds all things and I'm alone.
Very vaguely, a light is shining,
Through the clouds thick with storm.
Rarely reaching the earth below it,
Never strong enough for warmth.
Miles and miles of arid land,
Covered now by stinging sand.
All is lifeless and still. But I,
Give all I have to stay alive.
©1999 TG Magazine/Le Magazine TG
tgmag@tgmag.ca