The Beaten Sun
The sun sets
quickly here in Arabia
guttered shadows
pitch into nightfall,
men who kneel
on grassy knolls pray
in jalabiya,
stayed by muezzin’s call,
whilst my
old brown gumshoe stalks.
You’ll
glimpse peepers, mirror discs,
black cats
like me, perfectly at ease,
creepers
elemental under palm trees
because you
are, I am the bass man
double
bowing across electric strings
to hang
back-stage in back-thinking.
And here in
Arabia, we plead for rain,
whilst our
detective looks for motive
melancholy,
where to pinhole blame:
rhythm
sections keeping wasted time
knocking at
hearts, plucking at lines
that fall
heaven sent in robbed strains,
fill oxbow
hearts with rivered refrains.
Roads to
Arabia wind so hard and far
cosseted
here behind her lead guitar,
reflect that
I did once to Kingdom come
but too old,
and never was too young
to keep time
with drum, looking upon
the old setting
heart of the beaten sun.
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