Hands cracked as dried soap
******, battered
working out on the dust
its hard and still

a whisper of a geared wagon
tickles the ear of the fickle man
it is he... the man who points
he checks his list and nods
the man receives his daily remuneration

crackle of the sand paves the way
to a tin roof collective
where blurry eyed gentlemen line the plaster
the fickle man trades his social note
for a golden friend

My grandfather often tells me
“follow silently in the wood”
they, the timber and fauna listen
for heavy steps and cracks
and with one careless fumble
they fade into the limbs
he said “tread lightly and listen”
perking his ear to the wind
only then, if your silent
peaceful beauty will emerge