At first it is just a haze on the horizon but then it grows: a cloud of dust, moving fast, skittering across the desert sands: and then the noise: at first a hiss, or a sucking sound, and then a clattering and a rat-a-tat-tat. Soon the noise degenerates into a succession of booms and crackles and finally, finally come the engine roars. The engine roars are worst. It means they are near. It is that minute of fear, where what was distant blasts into reality, shattering all hope and dismembering thought. I cannot think. I want to die. I might.
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts