Felucca Ride

We sit in the hold like fish, Squinting up through the sun As the white sails creak and flap. This is slow-motion sailing, Snail-trailing over the tilting, drunken waves. A donkey drinks from the Nile So close you count the whiskers on its muzzle. The Nile is play, food, life Peasants and beasts drink free. A black dog sits on the bank Like a sphinx, too hot to blink, Nailed to its own shadow. The crew is a father and son The father issues soft or wordless orders The boy is smoking, his curls like a young Pan. A girl is gesturing on the shore, Hand to mouth, hand to mouth Mute mime of poverty A hawk flies over an island A reed cutter loads his boat Waves froth like small volcanoes The noiseless collapse of bubbles Small boats sprout begging arms Like winter trees. In the blue vault of the sky An egret pecks the air His white fez all a-jiggle. A great Gomorrah of tourism floats on past A gleaming cruiser, trailing its own wake A minaret dwarfs the palms That splay like fans over a village lane. My life has passed Like this white Nile felucca Slipping between time’s banks With scarce a wake