Ends of the Earth

Tar and water sandwich bleached sands. The sands run from here, all along the west and east coasts, to the tops of Africa. The mountain holds the clouds like a skirt, skin close as if ashamed of her rocky flesh. At her feet the worlds lights go out and people wake from their dreamy sleep. I watch the waves roll in. Wave after wave they crash into the shores, breaking as if though a rope hid beneath her skin were suddenly pulled tight. The sun warms my back as the wind lacerates me and everything in her berth. Billions of little white horses leap up, running from the chasing wind. Their aquamarine feet beat the ocean, their white mains flailing behind. Tired, they disappear into the depths or into the heights. Who can tell? Behind me, the incessant drone of all sorts of vehicles thunders ever louder. The cold faces of high rise buildings, still grey in the morning light, loom down on them. I have no part in that. I mount a horse and head for the great waterfall at the ends of the earth.