Desert Campfire

Outside the myopic circle
of light,
the Range Rover crouches
like some cubist sculptor’s tribute
to the humped beasts
the vehicle seeks
to replace.

The stars, just inches overhead,
act as ancient signposts
to the fabled secrets
of the Rub al Khali,
“The Empty Quarter.”

The restless dunes
huddle close,
then sprint for the horizons
of a very different reality.

The sand, coaxed by the night breeze,
sings its abraded song,
of death, of renewal,
of eternal change.