Lawrence Hall
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Dust Devils on a Sunday Morning in August
The Road to Emmaus is asphalt now
Instead of dust devils spinning in the heat
The stench of curious chemicals flow
In shimmerings among the hovering oaks
Above the crisping-brown fields circling vultures
Seem focused on me – do they sense a decaying soul?
My great-grandfather drove a wagon to church
I have air-conditioning, and Chopin on the radio
The Road to Emmaus is asphalt now
But you still might meet a Stranger along the way
