Ball Of Fire
There was an awkwardness, a clumsiness
about the manner it had chosen to progress
through simmering heat of what is called Death Valley,
while dreaming of the Napa Valley and its wine.
It thought, most of the time, of self as tumbleweed
which had a modicum of class attached,
and when the day was done and the horizon
had bathed itself in stunning sunset glow
it often visualised a life as one big ball of fire.
If only to command respect, so sorely lacking,
no creature gave the spinifex a second glance.
At best it was a nuisance to the foxes
who dodged when chasing rabbits and the like.
One sentimental afternoon of cloudless skies
saw brilliant red just hover in conceited glory,
and spinifex did pose to catch the fiery rays.
A sudden trance descended quickly from above,
and so it stood, so still the wind had come in vain,
a picture of such beauty, crown of gold,
when, casually, a passing motorist flicked out a Camel
still lit and glowing with its own internal life.
The desert heard no cries, it felt no fear.
There was no sudden rush to beat which was ordained.
Only the awesome sight of something utterly spectacular,
a wish was granted, it went out inside a great
big ball of fire.