In the Kush

And the promise of a tempest
colours moonlit mountains.
Our Caliban lurks in caves;
but we mishear the demon's name.
Dark lords abound and their dark
children are schooled on hard floors,
taught with logic as sinuous as the script.
Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine names
for the one true master; the juice
of the poppy flows through the Khyber
and the dust is stained with blood.

High in a pass a subaltern's bones fly
a scrap of once scarlet red,
his skull nestled in the hips' cradle
- a Pathan's cruel joke.

Cold snow covers shoulder boards,
their yellow letters - C A - fading.
Uniformed rag-and-bone, a long
way from Voronezh.

Pale tan cloth with darker ochre-d hues;
who chose this for Afghan winter?
Darker brown from the peeled torso,
jaw wide in silent scream.

Lean figures look down at their enemies;
as implacable as the mountains.

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