At the moment when
the last rays
acquiesce
to the faint glimmer of stars
and the time we have had
looks to be setting
on a far away horizon,
a finger of light
slips through long shadows
cast by tree trunks
and sparkles in the mica particles
of blazing red dust;
a trail to follow
a possible promise of a reclaimed day
that creeps into the undergrowth
and vanishes
with the pink sky.
May 2020
For a man who holds more promise than a red dust path.