by A. Pseudonym

Where the sharp white ribs of cattle stand

and stake the silent rust-red land

and pierce the rocks amid the sand

a man sees salamander bands

a-cracklin on the scree

Where the sun has hit their lizard skin

and dried them from the outside in

and stopped the pitter patter din

of feet so fine and the unshod shins

of what had tried to be

Wrapped white against the seer and glare

he scarce can bare to tarry there

so steps around and on to where

the footfall takes and brings to bear

the path that makes him me