Hamsin

Dumbstruck by an absent tide

‘flat as a plate’ fishermen say

casting syllables into glass

rippled flings that sink and die

 

No bites today, landlubber

sardine angler packs his rods

‘hamsin’ choking sea and beach

to laundered weary sameness

 

A cobbled trudge from harbor

past open doors where old men

sit at tables, cards close to faces

statues plastered with old clothes

 

Where if you stop and watch them

long enough you may discern

a fly perched on a half filled cup

change position, a wrinkled finger

 

Play a king, slow drag of nargila

drift of smoke, then silence

 

Perhaps the heat will break by

week end, the sun baked dust

repeats a well worn sigh - inshalla

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© Johnmichael Simon

2006

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