A Martian Rover Sends A Postcard Home

Day is butterscotch, sometimes flesh,
ground is rubble from, perhaps, bombings.
I’ve yet to see a wall or column.

The sea goes out for centuries;
no sparkle from the pea-grain sun,
nothing water over the horizon.

Hills are always too far away,
something to yearn for through winter’s drain
when the epochal wind erodes.

They lead me to impressions
laid down like plastic saucers on a beach.
I ant around, honey-searching.

The little bits are just the same,
nothing wriggles, squints back.
I scoop another cup, build no castle.

Nothing’s green, not even hiding under rocks.
Just more ‘Meh. Try again. Over there’.
They live in hope, like lichen.

.
.

Simon Williams has written poetry for 35 years. It ranges widely, from quirky pieces often derived from news items or science and technology, to biographical themes, to the occasional Clerihew. He has five published collections, the latest being A Place Where Odd Animals Stand (Oversteps Books, 2012) and He|She  (Itinerant Press, 2013). Simon was The Bard of Exeter 2013 and has recently founded a new magazine, The Broadsheet (www.thebroadsheet.moonfruit.com). He makes a living as a journalist.