In Algiers I held a glass

that held a face's stare

In the glass the face that stared

stared back at me in fear.

 

We came upon slowing traffic.

Inside the ancient bus

the standing passengers were gently thrown

as it edged forward along the unfinished road.

We passed the sun-glassed occupants of cars

and busses and the rolled-up sleeves

of lorry drivers. Tanned arms hung out

of windows; fingers tapping an unheard beat.

I stooped to stare at the dancing distance

 

of the baked tarmac highway.

 

The metalled road blazed.

People gripped passports, Identity papers, rosary- beads.

Their Letters of transit were not needed;

the border did what most borders do- it shrugged us through.

Smiles become all languages.

Later that afternoon, sipping from behind

the dark glasses I now wore. I held a drink.

Jez turned to me and asked,

"Is this what it's like to be drunk?"

I smiled as I slid my wine towards her...