Posted by: John Looker | 22 July, 2018

In a Strange Land

In Strange Land

 

Passports :- Baggage :- Arrivals. And it’s bedlam!
A melée like a field of medieval battle,
shoving, shouting, scuffling,
the announcements and all the signs completely baffling,
and only this thought consoles:
that somewhere this pandemonium conceals
a chauffeur trying to be heard
and a well-dressed aide with a clear head.
Where are they though? Ten minutes. Thirty.
Only the hustlers remain, grabbing and hissing out “Taxi?”

… pitched on the bank of a river where the adult males
are fidgeting with spears … guarding a train of mules
through a strange bazaar … bringing the caravel
into a bay to be met by prowling canoes …

and they know (regressing to childhood prayer),
they know that they’re quarry, they’re prey.

 

© John Looker 2015

 

This is another poem from The Human Hive (Bennison Books, 2015), a collection of poems looking at life through the work that we do, down the ages and round the globe. This one comes from Part 3 which rejoices in international travel.

 


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