TuesdayIII July

Star Watcher

My father called me Al Fazari.
I was born on a warm, well-lit night.
Afterwards,
My mother lay quiet.
Too tired to hold me, my newness lay beside her.  
Lapped by desert air the fire’s flames wrapped themselves in their partner shadow.
And flew round the tent.
She watched their shapes shrink and swell.
And my chest rising and falling with early breaths.
Outside silhouettes cast spindly forms against the thick night.

I have grown to be a strong man.
Of whom my family are proud.
I have no real vices.
I am a star gazer.
That’s how the goats know me.

At the end of each day I pack away my tools.
And sling them over my shoulder in a makeshift bag.
After a while the sacking rubs my shoulder blades and collar.
Making my sweaty skin raw and red.
As well as the tools I take soaked olives, wine and bread.
I nod to the other workers when I leave the square.
And turn to tread the path to my hill and its perfect rock.

At the start of each new night,
As sun-set’s russet kaleidoscope goes
I climb onto the rock.
And arrange myself crossed-legged.
I eat some bread and all the olives.
Waiting for the sky to grow.

I can feel day’s heat seep away to night cool.
My body and my mind are peaceful.
My stomach’s full of bread.
My eyes drink in the sky.
Soaking in starry avenues.
Ancient patterns.
Catch and hold heaven for man.

At first nothing seemed to move.
The stars hung still.
Then over many nights their places became paths.
And when I slept I saw them run down their paths.
Keeping their place and moving down paths in unison.
Each new night was for me a dawn.