Beside his heavy-shouldered teamthirsty with drought and chilled with rain,he weathered all the striding yearstill they ran widdershins in his brain:
Till the long solitary tracksetched deeper with each lurching loadwere populous before his eyes,and fiends and angels used his road.
All the long straining journey grewa mad apocalyptic dream,and he old Moses, and the slaveshis suffering and stubborn team.
Then in his evening camp beneaththe half-light pillars of the treeshe filled the steepled cone of nightwith shouted prayers and prophecies.
While past the campfire's crimson ringthe star struck darkness cupped him centuries of cattle-bellsrang with their sweet uneasy sound.
Grass is across the wagon-tracks,and plough strikes bone beneath the grass,and vineyards cover all the slopeswhere the dead teams were used to pass.
O vine, grow close upon that boneand hold it with your rooted hand.
The prophet Moses feeds the grape,and fruitful is the Promised Land.
