Yellow lizards race
across the crumbling steep.
Dry earth slips from place to place,
caves in beneath my feet.

The mountain lets a weary sigh
like an old accordion.
Far below, stretched taut as wire,
a river drones along.

The wind attacks the apple trees
in fitful angry bursts –
drives into their backs and batters
the ripe fruit they have nursed.

A butterfly drifts slowly down
into the forest glade.
I feel the sun’s fiery sting
between my shoulder blades.

This is a barren land, a wasteland,
and all is touched by blight.
Only you, butterfly,
are beautiful and white.

My memory crumbles away
like rootless soil, wind-blown,
scavenging among the stones –
the hungry ghost of a thought.