In its vast blue vault, the golden cup spills
by Mary Naylor
over Earth's parched brow, unto its fevered, furrowed hills,
a clear ethereal wine, hot and pure, that mingles
with quietly devout, gaunt, prickly fingers,
humble supplicants cupping a rosary of sand.
In the darkness of their being
they silently gather silvery beads
that spill over like precious mead.
Prayerfully they clasp the scattered, quivering links
shattered like drops of quicksilver, pilfered from the land.
Amidst a waiting choir of mute green-robed
singers, the penitents' offering is a flower,
lush, white, tropical, formed in this merciless bower,
cradled with a silent psalm,
layered in the hush of dust,
on a leathery, wrinkled palm.
Hot blasts and blistering gasps caress
and scuplt raspy sighs, and they bless
this shimmering, kiln-baked realm
that moans and rends its own amen.