We walk the road hand-in-hand.
The wind ruffles our hair and coats it with dust.
The air is chilled and still
Like it's hanging heavily in suspense.
The trees are ashen stumps
Reduced to stick-thin remnants.
The soil is grey and sogent.
The sun is merely a bleached whiteness in the mottled sky.
The fires blaze about the hills.
The shopping trolley is a third companion,
Along with a six-shooter I keep at my side.
The storms blunder through the sky
And the rain flees from the crushing clouds
Like hastening refugees.
This road leads to the coast, I think.
God knows what's happened here.
I walk with my boy.
He's still carrying the fire.
I'm carrying the fire, too.
We must champion the fire.
Horrid spectres stalk the road searching for flesh.
What do we do now?
There is only the road.