Mary Cresswell

Water sinks into the sand. The border
is awake beneath us, waiting for dawn. 

Stranger, what brought you to this step?
The desert around us is gritty and grey. 

Today is as dry as the river bed
where Jordan rolls, or the Rio Grande. 

Your words are gone and cannot cross over.
They have no wings nor can they fly. 

I start to speak of Ozymandias. You say,
He’s gone. He drove off in the night. 

Stalking thunderheads kick-start the rain.
They will nourish the new, the passing strange. 

Paso doble. Footsteps gone in the storm.

First published in Lucid Rhythms 2 (2011)