From the foothills of the mountains
spring-water flows into the falaj ..
as the village sleeps in the sun
and history runs past the mud-baked ruins
like trickles over stone ..
and green-plumaged birds plunge,
in a shimmer of iridescence,
into the shadow of the date-palms.
The time-faded blue of an enamelled door
speaks to me of yesterday’s skies;
when bougainvillea held this crumbling wall
in a wild vermilion embrace
and bloomed and died
for yesteryear’s eyes …
when spring-water flowed along the falaj
like the laughter of children at play
and green-plumaged birds flew out from the shade
in a fluster of squawks
and the village life was the life of the village
and the city was a life-time away …