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(for
El Hedi El Abed, painter)
We
name ourselves in sand:
Characters
like blown thin grass in a sea breeze
Among
the angled needles of fishing-rods
And
the bloom of umbrellas –
A
sky as endless as we think it is,
Balconies
that blind under the noon sun.
(El
Kantaoui, Tunisia - May, 2004)
Downhill
by rust-dead railway tracks
To
the seafront, salt breeze, a patient line
Of
horse carriages stiff as postcards,
Past
leather bag shops, the lovely gaggling
Girls,
old women wrapped head to toe
In
butter-coloured cloth, a man posing without
Meaning
to at an angle to an ancient streetlamp –
A
sailor’s spit from Carthage and its tombs
This
always-exile once again goes home.
We
took mint tea and discussed
Textures,
weaves, meanings –
Just
beyond the window the ancient sea
Strolled
up as far as the beach,
Turned,
went out pimpled with boats:
Time
passed, and when we left
–
the light had changed, we were tired –
There
was a need to scramble
Off
a postcard to explain the definitions
Laid
out before us: I can’t explain it.
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