Crickets trill-
rhythmic
and prolific-
while the sky
is stirred
sparkling pink
and creamy red
by the baking sun
as she rests
her golden head
beneath the
scrub-brushed
land.
It’s said
the heavens
gape
out here
in the west,
yawning deep
and wide
and endless.
Perhaps that’s why
these Western folk
are preeminently
religious.
How could you
not be
when you’re this
close to god
every kaleidoscope
evening-
worshipping
every sunset?
pm poetry 