Sun-washed rooftop
in the shadow of the mountains.
We drink lukewarm Vodka mixes
to the smooth notes of Turkish music
drifting up from the flat downstairs.
Through a heat that strips the silence back,
we play Blackjack in our worn-out deck chairs.
Wise women armed with tarot and
stories, rich in nothing but knowledge
and time.

Words spill from every glass
and songs so old we don’t remember
anything but the arcane whistle
of their tune on our mother’s lips.
Chase the sunset with drooping eyelids
a last kiss of light that dances against
white brick and washing lines.
We’ll be sung to sleep by a different song,
lulled by the strain of mountain cicadas
and the drunken singing of drowsy travellers,
home in their land for just one night.

In their off-beat voices is a memory of the days before;
when our hands knew worship-
not for diamonds but dirt
and gods were not worshiped with purple and gold
but at anvils and in fishing nets.