Poem – Jan Hutchison

Weather in August

Rain toes the iron roof and
points to an August evening

when our ceiling leaked and
you tossed blankets from

our bed. We were jugglers
in a camping rug, catching

raindrops with our fingertips
before they clinked to the pan

on the floor. You’re in
Tabah now and write that

no-one in town has seen rain
for years.

Soon it will be night there.
You will lie on a faraash

high on a flat roof
while in the street below

people will hover until it’s late
over the backgammon boards.

Threads of conversation
may drift across the chitter

of dice as you fall asleep.
And I think of you under an

Arab sky, your dreams floating
in clouds of muslin.

This morning a train
jolted pictures on the wall.

Black rails divide our landscape
in two.

Yet as I open windows, a
gauzy wind flits

around the green striped awnings.
It brings a trail of

sweet tea, turmeric and cinnamon
light as a yashmak.



Jan Hutchison

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