Along The Track

By Nora May French

The track has led me out beyond the town
            To follow day across the waning fields,
The crisping weeds and wastes of tender brown.

On either side the feathered tops are high,
  A tracery of broken arabesques
Upon the sullen crimson of the sky.

Into the west the narrowing rails are sped.
  They cut the crayon softness of the dusk
With thin converging gleams of bloody red.