After the common trails vanities of petals
precocious yellow buds stipple the scrub
where gorse thorns seethe and scratch the horizon
riots of flowers climb fractured white tiles
at the East wall of the Mosque
the land ends abruptly
a nightjar is closer, hawking for food
the open call and guttural prayer
go out into the gloaming
the gate sheds rust-scurf
In the last of the light one figure swings
then into the old cemetery
to trap in a fist the dark ways of roaming
search for hibiscus and warm crops of maize
nowhere save the ache of an Indian sob
caught in the larynx
for strangers.
Salat al-Janaza, father it should be you
posses no mourning to suppress
the hour of your death
Amen.
