On edge of dry creek’s inlet,
A shadow plods on by –
The rider but a silhouette
against an orange sky.
His garments were in fading,
With tassels ready frayed,
Though none of this could quite be seen
amidst the coming shade.
For, blooming in the distance,
Was man and mount’s friend, one.
The only other living soul –
They called the setting sun.
Beneath, they watched in wonder,
And shed a straying tear,
As stars tore sky asunder
making them but disappear.
Jonathon Best 2014©
jbestbooks.com
