The canyon is choked with stones and undergrowth; The heat that falls from the sky Beats at the walls, slides, and reverberates Down in a wave of grey dust and white fire: Stinging the mouth and eyes. The ponies struggle and scramble, Half way up, along the canyon wall; Their listless riders seldom lift A weary hand to guide their feet; Stones are loosened and clatter Down to the sunbaked depths. Nothing has ever lived here, Nothing could ever live here; Two hawks, screaming and wheeling, Rouse the eyes to look aloft. Boldly poised in a shelf of the stone, Tiny walls peer down on us; Towers with little square windows. When we plod up to them, And dismounting, fasten our horses; Suddenly a blue-grey flock of doves, Burst in a flutter of wings from the shadows. Shards of pots and shreds of straw, Empty brush-roofed rooms in darkness; And the sound of water tinkling, A clock that ticks the centuries off to silence. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A THANKSGIVING TO GOD [FOR HIS HOUSE] by ROBERT HERRICK SHIRK OR WORK? by GRACE BORDELON AGATE RARE DESTINY by FLORA LOUISE BAILEY ECHOES OF SPRING: 1 by MATHILDE BLIND WILL O' THE WISP by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN A THOUGHT FOR A LONELY DEATH-BED by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |