Mirage

• Jordan Taylor-parkins, Grade 12
• Poetry
• 2008

The scorching sun singes the hair on the back of our necks,
We wait for a non-existent wind to wash over us.
Our muscles strain as we walk over the bush scrub,
Gaining speed as we close in on our destination.

As we almost reach the top of the hill a splash reaches our ears,
Grins spread across our roughly sunburnt faces.
We hurry over the hill eager to find the source of the splash,
Expectations run high as we creep closer to where the sound came from.

The dry cracked mud crunches under our shoes as we walk over,
No grin exists in our group as we look around us.
The splash wasn’t real; a mirage in the desert,
We sit in the dirt dinking from bottles.
We hate the drought.