Children holding hennaed palms
toward me ask for tribute;
this is their country, where I
travel light through Kurdish days -
to lands where Hebrew slaves
wept psalms for tyrants -
but I have no gifts,
no magic in my rucksack
and no Zion.
Children flower out of desert
stone, the women in blond fields -
purple women reaping sheaves,
gold and crimson girls.
Domed bee-houses old as Jericho
protect the vivid swarm.
Narrow of gaze, the herdsmen have
no use for signs embossed on stone.
Astronomers who used the ancient
tower on the Harran plain watched
flocks too nebulous for nomad minds;
but travellers take courage
from observatories left by their kind,
and moving on, embrace each day -
the only gift they own.
Travelling East
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103022300368
Свидетельство о публикации №103022300368
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