Caravan

I am dancing on the water of light's pain.
My skin harsh, textured with sand's angles,
I am a riverbed in some fragile desert
tumbling to a sea of broken smiles
and jangles.

On hind legs, see me statue for your pleasure.
Eyes of moonless lake, filled
with every sight of a thousand slaves
marching in trumpet lines
to graves.

I plod the English veld, for my meal and family.
In black rows on terra-cotta they mill
as in damp hill-fog the caravan rolls
to a new town of waterfall coins
and tolls.

Crack the ice and whip
for we transient stars must pass.
I glitter for your delight and lock
each day inside,
alas.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.