Excerpt from Smoky Roses

Smoky Roses

The "mogul" rides the east wind,
Cleaving the dust and heat,
Speeding from dawn to twilight
With thunder and lightning feet.

The smoky roses wither
Breathing the dust and sand
Where the old man guards a crossing
With a red flag in his hand.

He coaxes from the waste heaps
A meagre garden space,
And brushes the tearing cinders
From the rose's tender face.

His smoky roses wither
Under the cinder and ash,
And the red rose dims to greyness
In the joy of her first red flash.

The long days are contentless,
The yards are a small, tight world,
He watches trains for Frisco
That over the plains are hurled.

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