Of all the sheep musters on the steppe,
The herder counts one lost on the steppe.
Paso de los Indios my left feet,
Stumbling over shadows on the steppe.
The game is up now the game is gone,
A lone pedestrian on the steppe.
The ebb and flow of conquest stilled,
A terrible beauty on the steppe.
My skin is a thin protection,
For this wayward nomad on the steppe.
Chubut or not Chubut — Shakes spear,
Now a ghostly footnote on the steppe.
The moon turns a deaf ear to wishes,
Aloof and small shines on the steppe.
FERGUS CARTY writes: First half of my life bracketed by the Berlin Wall.
Briefly attended UCD NUI (Politics and Economics). A chance acquaintance led me to start writing again. Like to approach poetry my way.