To Fes

Crunched brown under smoky sky;

The Sahara, it breathes to the wind.

Horizon risen as serration so soundless,

Where maps are born, raised and bound.


A white horse with skin twitching;

Be-flied, red-eyed, in heat unflinching.

Fits of colour, plaintive barks of the past;

Rock leaning and broken, cracks pinching.


Piety is whispered and casual, with a

Peace and a leave of mind.

Assured and omipresent,

It is a glowing faith we find.


Rough bush and dried rush

Encroach a nouveau, swerving connective

That sends us up, down through time.

Asunder we are launched, reflective.


Smooth, without haste,

Among peaks who berate, emasculate.

Moisture is babbled at a distance,

A dribbled longing, where we elate.


Cattle in ploughed plains chew

Soon to be a fat, roasted, turning.

Scarce flapped feathers pump hot air,

Gliding with a brazen free yearning.


A rippling beauty without limit

Is our summit, an arrhythmia of calm.

We smoke and smile in flowing sun

Until we’re woken, to pay alms.




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