NaPoWriMo #28: Matriarch

Just when it seems the drought is at its end,
a new day arises, sunshine and all.
The lakes dry out, the rivers join the trend
grasslands now deserts awaiting rainfall.

The elephants trek through the baking wastes,
the matriarch following ancient trails
urging her family on with great haste
to a place she knows from her mother's tales.

An oasis in the sand, out of sight,
the herd quench their thirst at the waterhole
alongside other animals who won their fight
against hunger, heat, and the drought's harsh toll.

The matriarch spots lions off in the haze,
they will not risk meeting her prudent gaze.
She watches on as her grandchildren play,
at dawn the herd will re-enter the fray.

Two Seas

Out in the hot wastes
sun swelters scorched sands,
sidewinders, beetles,
highways of the dunes.

Silhouettes in haze,
herds of elephants
weary and weathered
track down waterholes
one trek at a time.
Lions shadow them,
envying the chance
to snatch a young calf.

Fresh dew disperses
on the crested dunes,
white breakers rolling,
a mirage far west.

Trials of the Fennec

Desert sands hide many things.
The roots of heat-withered grass,
the coils of fierce-eyed vipers
and the prey of the Fennec.

A fox with satellite-dish ears,
its fur the colour of the sands,
a buccaneer of the dunes
on an endless trek.

Anything goes on the Fennec's palate.
Bird eggs, shelled treasure chests,
unwary rodents, luscious carveries,
scorpions, refreshing yet barbed cocktails.

Then there are the Fennec's foes,
the beasts which lurk by day and night.
The devious caracals, the fearsome hyenas,
even the death shadows of owls on the air.

And yet this little fox pressed on,
prowling the crest of the dunes
across the driest of oceans
on to find its bounty and a place to rest.

Untouchables

Vultures huddle in their roosts
inside the Mehrangarh Fort,
resting in the barracks
of the maharajah's army.
The fort casts its shadow
over the streets and the dunes beyond.

Vultures gaze at the seething chaos below.
Cast out from the city, ruling
the fort is their reward.
They frown at vegetarian scruples
when there is so much meat on the streets.
One spots something on the city's edge.

King vultures lead the rest
as they take off,
circling figures in the sand.
One is a cow, freshly dead;
the other is a man, a chamar.

They form an aerial wake
as the man removes the biggest
obstacle to their feast.
The man leaves with a
drum skin as the vultures
drop out of the sky and gorge
upon the reeking corpse.

Beaks tear muscle and flesh,
until the rag-and-bone birds of the desert
fly back to their fort
before the sun disappears.

NaPoWriMo #2 | The Sun with Sunglasses

The second poem of NaPoWriMo and I think I've gone about as a surreal as it's possible to go. Maybe it's the hectic work schedule, maybe it's from the lack of sunshine in Frynwys at the moment. I don't know, but I hope you find this somewhat entertaining.

The Sun with Sunglasses

Should there ever be a time
when the sun finds it too bright,
it might suffer if it looks
at itself too long.
A visit to the opticians is in order.

The only glasses made for
flaming orange stars can be found
in the desert, made by the
ever efficient dung beetles.
They sell for fifty grains of sand.

Now the sun can stare at itself
and the earth for as long as it likes,
safe in the knowledge that its
retinas are protected by
everlasting celestial aviators.