Two whole days, 850 kilometers on roads – from dusty and pocked with holes you could bury a giraffe in to blackvelvet smooth tar –
8,500 in the air (chicken or beef? who actually said it was the World’s Favourite Airline? Not me, that’s for sure).
All that way and it still doesnt’ feel I’ve covered enough ground to realize the distance between my far flung, wild, wide skied Outpost
And blackberries and Tesco.
Funny that?
The sun has stolen the colour from the sky;
Leached it bright, whitehot, bone dry.
I tip my head and gaze up high.
On powdery winds greydoves fly.
Like talc, so that horizons blur
And smudge and shimmy and slowly slur,
For lips are fat cracked in kilnhotheat
Slippery dust beneath barefeet.
And with her canvas blanched of stain
The sun she clambers up again
And rolls furnace red into sight
Turning blush pink the virginal white.
Reluctant Memsahib 