Morning

He has feasted on light. 

Blinds clatter, slice the sun.

Out there in the bottlebrush lorikeets screeching,

same as before.

He perches beside her, tells her about the day.

‘Cumulus’ he says.

She was there when the clouds were down,

marvelling at the patience of cows,

hearing the kookaburrah announce he’d seen it first.

A solitary pine, ragged scarecrow,

was poking through the white.

She’d watched the clouds remember they must move on. 

Later they’ll have breakfast outside,

convince themselves the air is clear enough to see the coast,

each of them believing they were there first.

GONE

Time and again I have returned to this place

where I last saw my companions.


They are not here. They are gone

as surely as the day is gone

when swallowed up by night.


Try as I might I cannot find them.

I search in vain. All I see is

emptiness littering the landscape

from my feet to the horizon.


I cannot go where they are gone.

I cannot follow in their footsteps.

My destiny lies along a different path.


With a heavy heart

I turn toward the setting sun.

Judy Bandidt    ©   May, 2013

 

[Inspired by the 'Journeys of Marco Polo'.]