The Path

The path beside the pasture bends to
the South and then to the North, the ruts
are deep with a ridged character and the
grass runs through the centre unkept
and limp. My feet fall gently on the
patient earth beneath my bare feet

Grasshoppers parade in the air, itching
my feet with their sinful presence. My home
is behind, to the North East, my toil is in the soil
surrounding me. I walk toward the mountain
in the distance begging the heavens for
my destination.

The summer fallow broken and beautiful holds me
in its gaze. I venture to the middle of it
off the path and to the ridge. A sudden wind
sweeps in, it’s arrogant, violent and crippling. I hold
my breath and fall to my knees. I have breathed in the
jagged particles before; they are sharp and scarring.

The wind subsides, I lift my head and see the
mountains in the West. They stand, unmoved
perfect like a painting on a mantle.

Covered in dust, I weep for
the mountains in the distance.