The oak door shuts out
the last wisp
of dusk's residual rouge
and the mantle of night
settles as a solid,
seizing
air and aspiration as
our breath and heat
- filtered by the dark -
rise from the sweated stone
and the carpet rides the floor
as passion drives our truth
out into the Moroccan night.
And in the Marrakech of my mind
I found this carpet and I flew
with you at sunset
over the city
through the spice-laced
street-smoke sky.
We see the frenetic fervour
of the snake charmers and
dancing mean-eyed monkeys,
and the carts hauled by men
and donkeys.
The ripe and the rancid
merge
with the subtle and the fragrant
as we track
the human flow through the Souk.
The incandescent and the curious
in conflict with the earthly
and the ethereal
- and you offer a smile
but it was so much more than that.