She sits there, alone, far-gazing
where sun sifts that earth of
brown where cattle never grazed, neither
men drove herds, nor ever anything but a bee.
The bee that came from afar, from no place
from the four hundred years to come;
a desert crossed, with knowledge forsaken
for water, the where unattainable,
she oscillates on her brown-grey wings, yellow body.

There on the hill, she sits, the first breath
of stones and sand, of quires and poetry,
eyes burning; as wind shakes her hair
only slightly, just a gentle flutter of the calico
a handkerchief before the race starts, or a red lip
whither embosses a kiss, in surety, in possession;
between the hum and the wise words, twang and silence
it is only the dialogue of civilisations: arrival,
never arrived;

a solitary palymra stands witness.

07/07/2011

Posted on 07/07/2011
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