Arid avenues

Along the roads of sand
Memory strains
The route to find
Where stations midway
Flower only in the night
Without the lamps
Lit by planets vanquished
Even with a raft
At sea we’d languish
Even with a compass
Or vanity’s GPS
The gales of our folly
Tear that last load
From the deck
From our back
So lightened from our
Past abandoned
Sweat now banished
From our smiling face
Alas no road ahead to see
Our frivolous footprints
Have ceased to be.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is author of Unbecoming American: A War Memoir and also Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..