AFRICAN JOURNEY
The road rides
into the throat of the sky
a silvered saliva mirage
moistening its trembling demise.
We travellers never enter
that haven of the end of journeys.
For us the road forever
sloughs its skin,
patched and battered,
scabbed and scarred,
writhing away beneath us
through the parasitic grasses
itching on its broken flanks.
The bundu slides backwards,
but our wheels are motionless
fixed on the immutable way.
The endless road
that welds itself to the horizon,
dissolving a bright hole
at the earth's edge
like the gap that is our future.
Copyright
Ruth Hartley 1980s?
Will
this only mean something to people who have travelled in Africa?
Or
possibly America?
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