glimmer blades
the field’s lightly fogged
grass green

Outside the Berber tent
the poet and I contemplate
the boundless Sahara sky.

We totem our empires with the raptor,
weave into flags, fix on coins
but what of the victims?
How come no one ever glories the fish . . .

Think what it must have been like for her
fasting from sunrise to moonrise, to wake up
 
three hours before dawn, bathe, apply sindoor
on the parting of her hair line . . .

Zerihun drove him over the dead-cow hills and Bob’s long hair stood up with shock at what he saw.

Driving into low cloud everything fades
to a blur, all colour and definition leached

Two calls this morning – flood of tears…
She cannot eat a single thing they give her.

A long way from the quags of Nova Scotia,
stowaway beneath the cherry laurel thicket,
more triffid than cabbage . . .

I fall in love with Leeds Coach Station, Holts pints,
a shared fish supper from Arkwrights.