Morning is coming ’72

The edges race to meet the wheels

the grass is left panting at their heels.

Trees and posts and fences too –

all are racing to meet their due.

Forks and curves tauten nerves,

Dips and bends make eyes to the road the gazes lend.

The dust  pollute the nostrils, eyes tire and grow coarse as tonsils 

too become hoarse.

Supple backs to bends tend and head grows weary with the trend.

Dust blinds – as trees laugh behind.

Fences bow, minds tire as gears deride the beauty of this ruggedness.

Blind eyes race for time in dark infinity of truth

her body out there – laughs at us and the coach on her belly,

shakes in fear.

Shadows haunt and fume to cover dunes.

Now horses trot and graze, stand aloof,astride.

While sun’s golden haze, melts their cold hides

and smelling life, they  move 

lean and brisk,vital and lank.

Parrots in two glide and climb, silent wings flap

above and behind.

Breasts of red – colour and blind.

 

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