HERAT
The citadel is a quandary of hard light.
Its dun mud walls are crumbling into the clear sky,
But my seeing eye is rubbed piebald with white sand.
Ants and armies have razed each fable
That Alexander wrenched from plain dead men.
Now they grow avenues of conifers for peace.
The sloe eyed donkeys must skitter in the dust
With panniers of cement, and dream
Of aluminium-windowed palaces.
New oases in acrylic blue, iridescent green.
Kebab and tea 20, mister! Change money?
Buses all the time.
Thor, 1972