Parched grass.

A walk across fields and mounds where branches and weeds lie unconcealed, waiting to take thirsty hikers by surprise.

The midday heat bears down on the hiker, raw and unrelenting.

Fields surround the trail, each like the last, so that north and south and east and west merge, teasing the hiker with countless possibilities.


Dry rocks and sand-like dust. The grass has burnt away.

The temperature soars, but the journey goes on without an end in sight.

The hiker doesn’t know which way to go.

He takes another sip of water from his pouch and studies the map.

Everywhere is identical and bleak, a desert in the middle of English countryside.


© Lawrence Estrey 2021

poetry

4 thoughts on “Thirst, An English Desert

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