Many miles gone,
swept up in the wind.
But shadows liner on,
echoes of footsteps dim.
The days grow shorter, the nights colder.
Dusty sand, from my feet I rapt.
I glance back over my shoulder
to that barren vacant plain I passed.
But only a perfunctory look
through that hollow gorge.
A past—— forsook.
Forward, ahead, I yet must forge.
Before my stride I swish,
my sturdy walking stick,
lest the gricken has laid thread
across the path for me to trick
and with its poison of dread
lay into my neck a quick prick.
Rare is the step I can shake the dust from my coat.
My beleaguered eyes must stay affixed
on the terrain ahead, keeping careful note,
watching my vision's fringe for a shimmering wisp.
When I reached a smooth slab of black granite
I stop my steps, to rest my feet.
Far enough from its coiling limbs, lanky and lanate.
A little leeway, so with my spyglass I'll seek.
Ahead, beige and tan,
a dry flat land.
To my left, arid and cracked,
features, it lacks.
The other side, little still,
wind-swept earth, without frill.
Put it aside!
I still know my way.
My steps I'll abide,
with the grickan at bay.
Mar 13, 2026