Missing

We were given permission to talk to the soldiers at the outpost.
To a man they were frank but ultimately unhelpful.

They knew nothing. The station commander, a captain,
said it was unlikely they’d have missed a passing.

Outside the outpost, in a treeless, sun-bleached plain
we kept seeing shadows coming towards us.

Our minds played tricks on us until we drew guns
on ghosts that laughed silently as they vanished.

After two days we reached foothills.
One pony was already limping – from what?

By then, we had laid those ghosts, had found a defensive routine
of rear guards and advance lookouts and “We’re alright.”.

We never found him, nor them we thought had taken him,
nor any sign, or any spoor, or any new hope at any stage.

We gave up and turned back after a snake finished off the limping pony.
Once I thought I’d glimpsed a shred of the red scarf he’d always worn,

caught on a branch of a crippled bittertree. I halted my horse.
He snorted, and a crimson-breasted shrike took flight.

Rosenlaui, Juli 2023