Borodin by Robert Walton

Borodin
 
Will never again raise his baton,
But the orchestra plays
Tashkent, Bukhara, Samarkand.
 
Wind is a thread
Hanging
From distant mountains.
 
Steppe grasses hiss
And sand,
More sand, blows.
 
A pony waits,
Feet together,
Head down.
 
Dusk drifts
Like a violet scarf
Across day's face,
 
Hush, hush,
Quiet,
Still.
 
Here at time's end there is
Salt
But no tears.

Robert Walton

This poem was previously published at Fictionique.

Robert Walton is a musician with several dozen published poems.  He says: "My novel Dawn Drums was recently awarded first place in the 2014 Arizona Authors Association’s literary contest and also won the 2014 Tony Hillerman Best Fiction Award.  Barry Malzburg and I wrote “The Man Who Murdered Mozart”, published by Fantasy & SF in 2011."