ghosts of the past rising and falling. beginning to fade. the faces first. then the names. hail o golden light. o ever-widening way.
jimson weeds crowned his head. the boy lay, now still. dreaming? with a hand full of dark berries he left at dusk. for the river.
cleansing his hands. in dust and in sky. in blood and in thyme. with wild flowers blooming.
the nightman passes. he smells of saltbush. we is dreaming beneath the boab trees. this ditch is quiet. full of damp tubers.
seeking soft asylum. a house of clay. o to lie beneath wet leaves. inhaling. exhaling. the day.
a soft buzzing in the bones. red earth amongst the reeds.
all gone. save the eyes. and a brain full o’ nematodes. he holds hands with silence. and kneels before. this wall of days.
sleeping beneath a sallow globe. he gone at dawn. taken. high above soft, creamy roads.
from loamy light. to pools of gray. why the eyes. always last to leave.
At the End of the Day - Mark Tulk 