They cast a lengthy shadow lurching forward,
Straining beneath a sun that doesn't turn,
So faithful to the heliotropes bent toward
Its heat and light: They never fear the burn,
These supplicants of Ra, both men and weeds.
Straw-hatted pilgrims--canna lily stalks
Attending as they kick puff balls of seeds--
Carve with mower tracks soft emerald walks
In sacred courtyards of a humid shrine.
Nearby, the priestly irises preside,
Anointed lightly with the workers' brine,
While the weary drudges serve their cult with pride:
They sense the god who made them is aware,
But drenched and dirty, doubt that he could care.
Bert Woodall
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