Tonight, We Travel     The dogs lie dead on well travelled roads, pepul and mango drape their heavy leaves on broken bone.   In the shade, the silent bystander hunches on worn legs, a cigarette ash is transported across the mustard field.   All voices waver in the light-night is near but stunted, strewn amongst dusted feet.   All creation here is spurred-tightened with raw hand, held solemnly then let loose, only to grow absently.   The evening reins in softer, all water, forest, sand is devoured by kind mouth, a soliliquoy of night sound, the nuetral grouping of moon and stars.   All answers are given to the evening journeyer, who sets his pack, his spurious home on land and drifts to water to wash, face and spilled hair.   His suit is soiled, his laugh and manner upset, his book with trembled script, has no explanation, no tethered log of fabulous creature or lazy wit to rub the brain with, no love nor dammage found.   The traffic of foot and automobile sound the road, wandering round with big belly, stretching the skin for an hour's journey, content with tea and luminous rubbing of finger to eye. Shadows blends in backseats, headlights roam and sit still on eyelids, the eclipse of a flame-of time.

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This work is copyrighted by Shelagh Power Chopra.

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