He flies beside me as a bird with its young,
Nudging it off a cliff to dive in deep blue skies,
Still, a constant dark void, constantly below,
We sail above it, below, the Roman Road.
The Sun above, below the Roman Road
Squiggles and weaves across the desert dry
And old, no leaf or reed, just rock, no oak, no snow;
It's the devil's circle, uncultivated rows,
Gutted by the wind, nature's conscience smooth's
It out again; below, a house, in desert shards alone,
Hills like Hershey's chocolate drops, twist atop,
The hills that see us home.
Don V Standeford
Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com
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