B Western

Tell-tale signs, good omens once,
now crumble to coincidence.

The crippled old-timer, propping up the bar
in Nazareth (rank sawdust, stained spittoon),

leered, claimed to recognise the scarred face
on the wanted poster, mumbled

something about a settlement on the desert’s
rim, a town called Dark Tower.

He may have lied, but I needed some lead
to follow into the bad lands.

The prairie becomes dreary after forty days:
rock and tussock, one slimy river.

In dreams under wide skies I pass,
stump-rider, through broken towns,

home to tumbleweed and the wind,
the disconsolation of coyotes.

I question why I set out;
why I keep on keeping on.

A vulture circles, wheels away.
I know this lightning-blasted tree.

Then suddenly in front of me the desert,
houses, a swinging sign: Dark Tower.

I dismount, hirple along the single,
silent street. He stands at the far end,

the long scar livid in the dying light.
I call to mind the faces of old friends –

Black Bart PO8, Carson, The Kid –
those whose trails ran out years ago.

His smile shows he knows my thought.
Distance closes slowly like a door.

He’s the last of the fast guns.
I could drop and roll and draw

and fire. But of course I shan’t.
The first move must be his;

that’s how it is. His hand blurs;
my wrist flicks; the derringer roars.

Print