Poem for Peter Hayes by Bob Devereaux

By Bob Devereux for Peter Hayes
The man stands alone
The silver trickle
From his water bottle
Is worth more than gold.
Parched clay shrinks
Wounds open in the riverbed.
No shade
No shade.
Bones whiten on the plain
The herdsman knows he must move
His little daughter
Seeing him silhouetted
On the ridge
At sunset
Says
Look mother
There is our water bottle
Standing so proud
With its narrow neck
No child
That is your father
He carries
All the sorrows of Africa
On his thin shoulders
A man stands alone
Parched clay shrinks
The herdsman knows he must move
The potter takes his story for his own
Pouring it back into the clay
Soon to be forgotten
The herdsman moves on
The pot stands alone.