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