The nomad soul, now quiet, settles down,
Hard fingers soft caressing coloured cloths,
Evoking bustle in an ancient town,
Where hawked were products of peculiar moths.
Long lost aroma of a censer’s smoke
Recalled, now drifts upon imagined breeze,
Which carries burning spice, thick as to choke,
Bold tastes and flavours linger there to please.
The glinting brass in golden light of sun,
Which warms his skin with tender morning glows,
Shines as a hoard, a legend’s hero won,
A regal gift from grateful prince bestowed.
With resurrected voice from haunted past
Her face within the crowd echoes at last.
AGW 23rd January 2017