© roy ballard 2012


By Mount Ybba Moghrair (27 North by 41 East)

Inflaming at the end of night,
a sudden blaze of hostile light,
the sun comes darting on the tents,
the savage spires, the wild ascents
and barren lands where Moghrair stands.

No morning call of bird, no dove
foretells the flight of stars above;
the distant mountains fade and quiver,
they ripple on a molten river
and  morning comes with beating drums.

A dry wind hurries down the waste;
it chokes the breath, it shrivels taste,
the earth is cracked, the body spent;
a fiery light pours through the tent
and all thoughts yearn the night's return.

Dusk comes at last;  the air turns cool;
the cold moon rises from a pool
of airy deeps and purple trails,
of starry gowns and lacey veils.
The herdsman, weary of the sun,
gives thanks to God the day is done.
He goes to find the common fire,
a cup, a song, the heart's desire,
refreshing rest and talk of rain.
Dawn brings the deadly rays again.