When the yellow moon floats across the desert sky,
And I leaning on the hubris of the world.
An unsung hero, hunting through the fossil shells,
Mired in the vast solitude of it all,
Lie with the scorpions, a bitter sting, drunk
From the chase, a tired old man, hoping
For the last gusher and what it brings.
I dream of bog lands, of blue eyed grass
Uplands full of haggard ash, the Atlantic swell.
The seagulls blown against the sullen sky
And the nothingness, nothing to tell,
Except to lose yourself inside its spell.
I have travelled, haunted like a wandering star,
Homeless, lost in the great trek.
Full of everything but the smell of wet hay
And the taste of turf tea from the wishing well.
The desert sings its songs to me,
Of shifting sands and the long years,
And I see through closed eyes,
Salmon spawning in the quiet pools,
Their journey done.
The human voices fading in the westerlies.
Drowned out in the harsh winters of endless tears.
And the old house abandoned to the hungry grass,
The harsh cold stones of my heart think of the final days
The old plough rusting in the dark,
The rot and the slow malaise.