Pioneer
Rods of light punch through the shingles and illuminate the doll’s face. Its blue eyes are clouded by dust. A spider’s web clings lash to lash and tethers the right eye half shut. Between the taut threads, drops of moisture shiver and slip down its dirt-peppered cheek as the woman picks it up.
Old nest in the eaves
remained empty last summer.
She paints around it.
The kitchen used to be bright as robin’s eggs. She covered the sideboard with lace, grew hyacinths for fragrance and forgot to water them. She was always busy then. There were always people round the table talking about the rains, the dust storms, the rains, the depression, the school closing down, and the rains.
Swallows congregate –
dots and dashes on the wire
silence afterwards.
Now she watches the boundaries fray and doesn’t try to mend them. The door hangs on one hinge. Grass grows into the kitchen. A yearling pokes his head through and knocks over a broom. He skitters away and bowls across the plains as youngsters will.
Bird’s wings beat thunder
lightning flashes from her eyes.
She is carved in rock.
* Jan Harris writes poetry, short stories and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in Mslexia, Flashquake, Popshot and Nth Position.
