A foreigner

Jeans over the back of the chair
send a sandstorm blur into the carpet,
a haze in the first of desert light
over Arabesque dunes.

A black tounged camel licks across
my face, lips moist, awake.
Vague recollection of the Egyptian plains,
emerging from a tent Laurence style,
white garments in profile,
cool breeze, this light

beam should be for ‘opening nights’,
instead, it’s playing at the window,
entering last century dreams
of Asian Turkish delight.

When the crows in the field are done,
having willed them to be quietly gagged
with double omen-like resolve,
and next door’s cat is inside
after much protesting his night’s freedom,
I’m shutting the curtains again,
just not giving into Monday, it can travel.