Gen Evening Poem by Mill Field

The time when wood-smoke curls,
Smells of frying onions and other cooking carry,
Cattle heavily amble back to their places of rest,
Dogs scratch and children chase in a desultory way.

A few hurry to buy provisions for the night meal or the morrow,
While men relax and pass the time of day with neighbours;
To the west, still apparent in a spreading evening mist,
The beckoning dreamy gold of the road to Samarkhand.