Postcard From Colony Seven (Poetry)

Last night a sandstorm buried sector five,
it took us until dawn to dig them free —
two dead, ten others rescued half-alive —
the dunes can have that cursed locality.

Morale is low — the crops under the dome
have failed again despite recycling
every drop of moisture we can comb
from manufactured air. Supply ships bring

three-monthly drops, and news from the Space Scout
has filtered through despite the asteroid
that partly knocked communications out
and spun its docking system through the void.

Night skies are full of unfamiliar stars,
their strangeness makes me ache to be back home
on Earth with all its self-inflicted scars,
not exiled on this lump of sterile stone.