The Driver

He drives old time, the fettered beast,

Along the dusty roadways, east,

Towards the feather vaulted sky,

And fading sun.

Beside the wandering river bends,

Slow downward flow to distant ends,

To weave at last its twisting threads,

In empty seas.

The route is lost to ancient maps,

The beast is silent, cold,

Perhaps ensnared within dull entropy,

A bridge beyond.

Drive on, yet still gray mist shall rise,

And hide the path from weary eyes,

At last the plodding beast will slow,

And stop to graze.

Joyce Effinger