by Jordan Dearmary
We took a few moments to breathe, but afterwards
Were made the darling of the tribes. I judged
Our work sufficiently done in Wadi Ais.
Its water would soon turn to salt and useless,
Completing the full bewilderment of the Turks.
Dune-valleys surged in plashes of dust and Allah
Urged us cross them quickly, for they differed
From other valleys in the flickering air
Whose searing swathes recalled the imperial days.
The tribe all round beat time with bone and brayed
Refrains at sunlight now terrific, gusts
Of scorching heat swirled up from ominous souths.
Ill luck: a scorpion with a human face
Stung me severely as I lay to sleep.
And soon by day and even in the sunshine,
The sands of time grew curved and unnatural.
Eventually the phantoms saddled up, went forward,
Their tempers roughened by my freaks of mirth.
And as the sun climbed, so I shifted swiftly
To a pale cloak to filter out its torrents.
I basked in that warmth, gazing across the dunes
At the towering spiders, philosophical and silver,
Their slim metallic tibia astride
The time-corrupted pyramids;
Who gleaming paused in recollection then
Moved westward into new and undefined lands.
