Lady of Spirit

At the end of the world,

We paused, breathing hard –

The lady of spirit  –

She helped me float,

I helped her climb –

And I. We looked

Across the lovely, dry rocks

That came from the

Words of God.

 

(For Deborah)/Petra, Jordan

15/10/2012

 

 

Rocks That Float

Huge time-passing rocks

That float, like clouds

In a sea of grains.

 

Friend of the sands,

Whose carpet is

Knowledge and fire

Following invisible corridors

Written in the stars –

By the winds of histories,

And faith.

 

Desert camp, Jordan, 16/10/2012

One for Sorrow.

Was my salute really so poor

That the black-and-white

Felt able to betray me so,

So completely?

Seven flights of seven steps

To bow, trembling,

Before my judgement god.

The desert lords,

Who own the water,

Will have the final word;

Name me

Legend

Or

Villain

A title that will

March with me

Into eternity.

(Jerash, Jordan)

14/10/2012

Been Away.

Been away. Off the radar. Somewhere else. Somewhere different. With a capital Dee. I have so many impressions, drownin’ in ‘em. So many thoughts, tumblin’ in my cold-moon sky filled head. Like grains of Blake sand blown down a dune. Enough to create a dune. Maybe a series of dunes. A desert?

A desert that’s anything but a desert. But where, my friend, where, oh where to begin?

“Simple,” I hear you whisper on sand-scented winds, “begin at the beginning.” And, so sweet of you; for I know you would be trying, as ever, to help; but when the beginning is written in the opening of Holy Books?

The lake that’s a sea and so much, much more than that. Where I floated confidently in hot waters. Saturated. Literally.

A place that is, now, nothing like it was. That comforted humankind on its way out of African cradles: offering fertile lands, good plentiful water. Space for living. For evolution of civilisation. For trade. For thinking. For faiths to be born, tasted and tested.

And everywhere and everything seems to be only two handshakes, two salaams from the Old testament, the genealogy of the Bible, echoing down from 1960s Sunday school and R.E. lessons, is reality: homeland, homecoming and promises of futures.

Skies that, in the high-sun heat of day, remember the Flood, but can so rarely hold a raincloud hold a cloud – and in the night pour the balm of cool from clear-star heavens over seas of sand in which rock formations wallow like slumbering leviathans.

To a country where people are genuinely helpful, far, far beyond pale plastic pseudo-polite imitations; where, if you tap your head to a waiter in a coffee bar he will be there with Paracetomol and water, before you realise what you were signalling.

A country born from a revolution that changed the world (again); named after (or for) and bordered by a river (the one we have to cross apparently). A country that has little or nothing in the way of resources, but one that showed a different face every day – and each of them brimming with hospitality and generous friendships.

A country extremely poor in water, but one whose role and example has stabilised the region, thanks to diplomacy, patience and inspirational leadership.

A history carved in rock and the winds: revelations on every hand.

Jordan!