Looking down

Looking down

How many days of heat
can this parched earth endure,
this mirror of the sky,
cracked from side to side?

Desolate, forlorn,
the crackle of dead things
beneath the tread of feet
that dabbled in the dew.

No dancing plumes, the path
is empty, echoes fly,
no bird calls from thin shade,
while restless winds spit sand.

We turn our weary gaze
from heat haze, wrinkled stalks
where stony rivers flow;
there is no Camelot.