Monday 19 September 2011

Desert

You were with the Sufi,
last time I looked,
holding on to his skirts,
as the red eyed hashishin,
offered you small glass cups of tea, 
sweeter then a child’s voice
from the damp sheets of a dream

I will look again, one day soon,
and I don’t know what to expect,
except a sand storm, 
crumbling ramparts, 
the slow hooves of a camel
and you, sheathed in silks,
protecting your eyes from the sun. 

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