Mixed media

The woman stands in front of broken and roofless house, she wears red, 
The hands of another woman working at an argan nut mill, 
They are smooth and as fresh and unsullied as a babies skin,

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The man on a low powered motorbike drives at full throttle into the wind.   
He leans forwards as if his inclination will help increase his speed. 
On the side of the road badly parked an old 4x4, 
nearby its driver is stretching his arms to the mountain sky in prayer.

The Beréber greet on the side of the road, 
The young man reaches for and holds the older womans hands in his, 
He lets them go and kisses his own now empty hands.

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All are dressed in woollen mountain capes with pointed hoods, 
greys browns blacks greens and reds.  
Around us is the recent fallen snow.  

Ghost adobe hamlets built into the frozen mountains slopes.  
Nothing. The only currency the cold. 

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Lengthening shadows thrown eastwards by the low Atlas Mountains.  
While plastic lies everywhere, ubiquitous, our permanent signature and our closing act. 

The air is dry and hard, and clear, it transports the light and amplifies the colors. 
It’s a desert dryness, unforgiving, impatient. 

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We drive for days, 
The distant landscape slowly passing.   
5 birds travel at the exact velocity of our car,  
The mountain looms persistent and permanent.  

We pass Tamarest, Acases and the Eucalyptus, 
A hundreda kilometers of palmeras, 
Whose roots dive deep into the rock bed and resistant stones 
To suck the water of the oasis.  

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This is the middle of nowhere and the centre of everything 
The river, dried now, took 4, but left only two bodies, 
Tthe others lost under the sands.

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Another bird, startled, flies with us,
It makes a mortal error and collides with the vehicle,

We meet an ancient poet nomad,
He is fluent in 5 languages,

In the cafe a young barman,
He tells me he is studying french literature, 
This is his 5th year, 
He supports his whole family.

 

We drive towards the moon settling in the morning high Altas mountains.