Morocco

The sacred fire was cradling its last logs
before its sleep at the end of summer,
and night was settling itself into the sands.
Your eyes were milky moons
and your fingers danced through your dreadlocks,
holding each one alone up to the fire light,
blurring their colours in the smoke.
You told me what each of their stories were.

This red is the rock atop the mountains
and this orange is that of the dunes,
this is the blue of painted buildings,
this is the green of crops with their flowers in bloom,
this is the white of the stone in the cities
and this is the yellow green of the mint tea
and this is the gold of the stone by the shore
and this is the turquoise of the sea

We're leaving at the setting of the sun.
When the fire burns out we'll pack up the tents
and hitch back to the van.
We'll leave with the cool night
sinking into the silver of the roads
with spliff smoke in our throats
and blowing out of the windows.
If we drive quickly we'll be there by tomorrow.

And in the morning they rode towards technicolour dunes
and I rode through the metal highways, until England was in view
down a long black tunnel caked with gasoline smell.

I called her from a payphone
and through a thousand miles of cable
asked what Morocco was like in summer.
Through the high tones in her voice
the desert shone through.
She sang these dunes can dance;
they miss you.