Evidentia

LADY IN THE SAHARA
By George Tombs

She was the widow of Mauritania:
A woman who wanted to press her mouth on this sea of ochre dunes,
Lie in these purple hollows and dream
Spread out her arms in the sand like angel wings,
Like spikes of fated desire,
Feel the heat and dry wind invade her body.
Listen to the hot sand tingle along the ridges,
Invent enchanting secrets, beautiful secrets worth savouring,
Drive from her mind any sort of finality.

Lady in the Sahara (fortunately not the widow of Mauritania)

She wanted to escape the last pink rays of the sun,
The camp, the crackling fire, preparations for the evening
The cook licking couscous off her spoon, then vomiting.
She wanted to push back the advances of black-eyed Moors
Who spoke of God while staring at the curve of her white breasts.
Extremes frightened her, contrasts - life/death, all/nothing –
For once, she wanted to melt into something
Dare to know the absolute - any absolute would do,
An ephemeral absolute, long enough to forget everything.

But no, he would have wanted it this way - wanted her to explore
The curved dunes of Mauritania, restless, relentless,
He would have wanted her to plant her finger like a column of wind-carved sandstone,
Wanted her to observe how whirlwinds engulf the glory of men.
Whirlwinds…. She had searched in vain for the body,
For two weeks, along the Amazon teeming with life,
In streams and clumps of roots and muddy waters.
Sobbing, she had looked for his wrecked kayak,
His blue face, his dead finger still bearing the wedding ring.

She was the widow of Mauritania:
A woman who had always been defined by love for her hero.
But that unbreaking love bond had now become a thing, broken:
She mourned those grandiose truths of his,
The bright passions and unkept promises.
Before her, a lonely life opened up - a life for her alone,
Like a trail of obscure desires blown along by the wind.
Night had fallen. The air was brisk. The sky filled with stars.
It was time to get back to the bivouac.