Felucca Night
Softly the old boat thudded to the shore
– a starlit beach – an island on the Nile.
our boat nearby – single-masted, white-sailed swan.
The old boat was no swan, more a battered albatross.
the turbanned, long-robed group leapt quickly down and
soon, a twig-fire glowed – small glasses of hot chai
were passed around, together with
a makeshift hookah – an old tin can and reed straw.
Sitting apart was a boy who played
a tune so haunting on his ‘flute’ –
a metal tube, with holes cut in;
he played to the night
crowded out, with brilliant stars.
Far away a dog barked, a mullah called to Allah
and from the boat close by we were observers of this scene –
Juliette and I, until on impulse we jumped down and
entered the sacred circle of camp fire light.
We drank their chai and begged the flute player
to play on and on, until he had no breath left,
his reedy, dreamy melody floating in to the smoky night.
Laughing and chatting the company paid scant heed
to these western women,
dropped in from another universe
of cities and pollution.
All at once they stood and doused the fire
leapt on their silent gliding boat
quickly fading into the eternal dark
leaving floating in the sultry night
a scent of oily wood smoke
and a faint and lonely melody
in my remembering.
