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  • Hermione Byron
    • Jan 28
    • 1 min read

Thirst

I like to plant seeds in the barren lands of the Sierra,

where I walk with a bucket and watch the shining eyes

of the buckles on my sandals.

The sun scolds my commitment.

It burns my shoulders

whilst I’m

bending

and

burrowing

in the dust of abandoned relics.

The rain does not love me.

It fails to kiss me,

F

A

L

L

I

N

G

from the trunk of shadow.

Swathes of cloth grip to my skin and drip with sticky sugar.

The glucose feeds my seeds,

nourishing their heads with a bitter substance

that trickles down my leg and licks the salt off my sweat.

Day after day, I choose this labour.

At night I dream of the orange trees

and pray for the satisfaction of their thirst.

I believe in the desperate lands

that have a grip so firm on my heart

I’m starting to dream ink trees.

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