Mongolia

Mongolia.

 

Frozen stretch, wasteland, grey-black mountain ranges.

Cold. Dirt road crawling like a wounded serpent

Through brown hillocks. Tiny hamlet.  Black.  No sound.

No movement. Nothing lost. Nothing found.

Heavy horizon lumbers beyond

The rocks.  Jagged.  Rounded.  Brown, grey, more grey,

Mean little shack, old truck, icy air, solitary bird

A miniscule speck, its voice unheard.

 

Ah, was I glad up in the sky, bright blue,

Yellow sun rays through the pane!

Warm luxury, it struck me full-on

In the comfort of the plane.

 

 

Catherine Broughton