Morocco: Colours in the Dust

I leave behind the dusty brown

Of narrow streets and sun-fired clay

Back home to England’s verdant town

Of scholars’ spires and skies of grey

I leave behind the market maze

Where every hue is staked and strung

And count the march of Christmas days

In gleaming malls with carols sung

I leave behind the emerald bliss

Of gardens in the golden sand

And smile to see the blooms I miss

Still traced upon my lover’s hand

I leave behind the hooded eyes

Of faces drawn like timeless maps

And brush the mask of my disguise

With bright new paint across the cracks

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