Sunlight's Shadow

Dust motes hung in the midday glare,
a barrel rim baking in it,
one man in the dirt wearing light
like an old shirt.
Breath slow as river stones
that have forgotten the river.

A shadow arrived before its owner.

Hooves worried the ground into haze,
spears clinked,
bronze helmets took the horizon,
rows of men sweating, rigid.

The king at the centre bent down,
polished, practised.

Ask anything.
Empires wait on your word.

The man in the dust squinted at the heat.
Move, he said,
plain as thirst.
You are blocking my sunlight.

A hush went through the ranks.
A boot scraped.
A hand tightened on a hilt.

Behind the king, a clerk held ink ready,
trained for provinces, brides, gods.

He waited.
Then wrote, slowly,

Sunlight.

F.S.F.