Waypoint

A lot of what I write has hidden meanings in it. I am wondering if this one is too hidden for fear of being all surface no feeling.

 

Long straight road
Black mamba on the desert
Straggling clouds rise in sweeping curves
Over sand-coloured tracks
The road thins towards the vanishing point
Trickles out to nothing

The eye of the camera swoops overhead
We see a tiny outpost
Corrugated rooves ripple like heatwaves
Warp and weft
The air flows on
Smoothing the stones
Stirring the dust into something
Momentarily like a face

Sometimes
People stop
Sit in the lone cafe
Stare out across the wind
Silenced by the thickness of a window
The plains a shimmering red river

They pay for their meal and go
Their change rings on the table
They never stay
There is no hotel
No empty houses

Forever, here, is just a word

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