Scorched

Dust drifts

of parched path

a prickly hedge

nature's thorny verge

so green can never mix

Race.

Dogs tails droop

as a burnt orange circle in the sky

bakes a chocolate cake

that tastes of muck.

No footprints here

of man nor hound

as we stumble blindly on

thoughts lost in unconscious streams

til dusk becomes dawn.

Wet brows glisten

a hand wipes the beads

that fall to the ground

and the weeds stretch,

and groan.