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Same old strangers (possibly astrologers,
possibly three) camel their usual way
from east to west, crossing blank desert,
time zones, gold-bordered Christmas cards.
What they are heading for remains unclear.
Under the stingy sun they trespass foreign fields,
prod their unwilling animals past lethargy.
How quietly the winter shadows lengthen,
landscapes shift as if creation, roused,
hopes for release. At nightfall they collapse
beside a meagre waterhole. The (possibly hungry,
homesick) travellers before they close their eyes and sleep
look up. There is the moon, a flat white stone
embedded in ebony. The faithful constellations.
And just ahead that singular, unerring blur
of light to steer by.
Sarah Klassen is the author of five books of poetry, including Simone Weil: Songs of Hunger and Love, and one book of short stories. She is a member of River East MB Church, Winnipeg.
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