Poem by Pamela Benham
The desert sands that mar the lands,
When on world maps, we find them, scans,
So much red earth and wasteland ground,
Yet some have places found, in useful productivity.
When storms that rage, can change the lands,
The landscape is transformed, but man,
Whose knowledge must him embue,
On roads across, known by a few.
Those at their peril enter in,
A mirage seen, when memory dim,
One must cover all or perish when,
The heat and thirst devour the skin.
The creatures that below do go,
Awaiting next when waters flow,
To bring them up again, refreshed,
Until the sun, the moisture saps,
Then leaves the skeleton defleshed.
When rains come down, plants reroot,
From earth, so quickly to surface shoot,
Myriad blossoms, like a carpet shape,
Incredible beauty, and colours make,
Scorched earth a brief paradise creates,
Too soon for them, their doom awaits,
Upon these arid broken sands,
Part of Earth's crust and hinterland.
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