Writing

A wide field, endless, unbound
A warm sun shaking the rust from aging bones
A loping play from days gone past, but not forgotten
Joyous noise with no one to correct

Grey and white replaced once more with slick black
Smells and friends long past, but still remembered
I call to them, and here, once more, they can answer

The memory is strong, able to keep at bay the knowledge
That morning will come, the rust will return
The play will be replaced with toil
Old bones will sing their songs

I wake with a start. Something has caught my attention, dragging me from what must have been a nightmare. My heart is racing. I'm covered in a cold, damp, sweat. I look over and see that what ever woke me hasn't disturbed my wife. Our dog is similarly nonplussed, snoring and firmly shoved between us. The drum beat of my pulse in my ears starts to fade and I roll back onto my side, trying to put what ever woke me out of my mind.

We'd walked hours to get here. When we'd set off it had been for a great adventure. You'd told us stories of this place and the wonders it contained. As if fuelled by your tales, we surged against the heat of the day. Hiking up the side of the verdant mountain, we paused from time to time, taking short breaks to catch our breath but always pushing on; eager to reach the beach. 

The desert is hot as I stand at its base. It looms overhead, smooth, impenetrable. It stretches as far as I can see in either direction. To the other side, I know -- people have told me, I've seen windows through -- that there is an oasis. I can get there. I can be shaded and cooled and sated, if I can only find a way past what I've built.