- Vol. 05
- Chapter 06
With a clear sky I can see for miles. I try to catch the bread and wine
thrown upwards as if the lobbers feel – once caught – all their prayers are answered.
What is it about folk who decide to be alone in caves, on mountains, on tall pillars,
cut themselves off from the nine-to-five, regular grind blistered in sun,
buffeted by gusts, hailstone pelted, rain sodden, bloodied by ice,
and oiled young bucks in gangs who wang stones to dislodge me from this precipice,
seethe at my chosen difference, see a hoity fella puts himself
above others, show off, poseur, while others try to tempt me
as if I'm in a desert, promise money, fleshly pleasures if only I come down
off my pedestal? Close my eyes, hear city hawkers and hustlers, ice-cream
vans musical wind up and down streets, prayer call of mosques, toll of iron bells.
when gust alters direction inhale, fish from the docks, sewerage farm stink,
grit blown from dusty roads in my teeth, sea-salt laps this dry tongue, breathe in
garlic evenings, curried afternoons, fragrant sweet citrus trees, kisses of feminine perfume,
spring blossom amid morning birdsong at a change of season. All are prayers.