Too Much Dust - by Cristina Roe

It was while cruising gently along the river nile, sipping my drink and pretending to be a high class Inspector Poirot flapper that I received the inspiration for this poem.

Too much dust lies over this ancient land
Its grey formlessness, a drizzle of brittle vegetation
The sun is hotter now, roasting the remaining granules
Even the palms look old, bleached grey green fronds droop
The river bank shrunk with sadness
At the departure of its inhabitants

Dry tiers of stone compressed through millennia
With their stories of magnificent days
Sentries of civilisations not quite forgotten.
There are those still toiling as of old
Cattle and donkies mingle into mud brick
Their warm animal scents born of biblical times.

The ribbon of fertility stretches to barren piles
In its neat delicate patchwork
The yarn is clearly distorting
The thinning green reflected in the general thinning

The cycle regular in the early days
Requires oiling, precariously limited
Former Gods protect from their robbed tombs
As deprived of their riches
They cannot easily be bounteous.

The last few drops of sand filter through
At an alarming rate
The bottle neck of home blown glass
When full, the trickle barely perceptible
Now emptying into a reservoir of coloured sand
A lonesome camel for tourist consumption.

Cristina Roe ©