Red Clay

Horse hooves trod lazily
kicking up a thin translucent film
that touches as the morning mist.
Colm hums in the wagon and
pulls out his ‘kerchief to blow ash-red snot,
his soft melody rocks him down the road.
A frayed blue hem in a still breeze,
worn fan in hand, a mother shuffles down the red clay road
staring dead ahead with perspiration drips and stains.
“Ma’m.” Shifty glances call from under his hat,
“Might you want a ride?”
but she continues onward… and Colm looks ahead,
wagon man and woman: parallels amidst clay.
The woman stops to shield her bloodshot eyes,
she stares through the crowded junction of blues and hazels
reaching her arm to meet his descending hand.
The red dust picks up again
the hooves and feet shuffle along
Colm hums a dim tune that mingles with the crowded air
around the two bobbing silhouettes.

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