By Jan Price

Each chosen child

destined to live

in its own desert

one night

will look up;

the trees will be breathless

and the pain of stones

easing their stance

will be heard to sigh in the hush.

Frost not yet white

or warmth not yet sweat –

the sky will be cloudless

and the moon will be pregnant

with buttercups.

The stars, Oh the stars,

spiked bright will spin

wild with Vincent’s colours!

And on that night

black rooftops will lift their black houses

and fly outwards as a scatter of crows

to hide in the distance;

Every mountain tree road

will melt into dark streams

and seep away to humble places;

every rebel-weed will wither

before that terrible beauty

and there will be nothing left

but wide wonder.

And in the staring

a star will fall from the heavens

streaking its silent scream

only to fade of fright before death.

Each desert child

will fall back in shock

and weeping run to its father

and he stolen of dreams

will turn away embarrassed

and the child’s eyelids will lower

just a little and a little more

each day and year until

all the stars have disappeared.

Image by Farid Askerov