Wills

The camels failed to make us centaurs,
we are merely evil-smelling bags of rags sadly cast
on the backs of ill-jointed, foul creatures
of little nobility or humour which may not last
the journey.

They are in lack of the carriage
of saddle-horses left behind, in the past,
and the heavy-lidded, vacant stare
does not encourage faith in their heart, blast
their eyes.

I fear the animal beneath me has little stomach
for the trip ahead and seeks to rest
at any opportunity, spitting at the task
before us, poorly armed for the test
we face.

There is indolence even in their browsing,
and are tied tight at night lest
they choose to wander off into the desert
where ungoaded they will breast
the steepling sandhills

we have found such a torment, rising
from stony plains that cut such a track
into our feet, the camel’s pads, the soul
of the company, now growing black
with despair,

growing more hollow in mind and rib,
strung like the rocking forms we now lead
as they fade before our eyes like the horizon
and cannot plead
Enough!