Walk of Shame

On an island called two seas,

I often saw the sun rise,

it was the coolest daylight time,

before the heat and humidity

boiled the blood.

.

Mine was alcohol thinned

and had retreated from one

extremity, at least for a while.

The previous night’s clothes

weren’t warm enough for dawn.

There was never much traffic,

or any people, despite the call

from the muezzin tower.

I saw no-one rushing to mosques,

the only dust was wind-raised.

The short cut from the diplomatic zone

to the hotel outside the Baib

skirted black flag areas, no-go zones

we were told could hide a knife or bullet

with an infidel’s name on it.

I met a man once, his western clothes

out of place where the cracked flags

and potholes dusted his polished shoes.

I smiled and wished him a morning of nightingales

but he only wished me honey in return.

Then, before I reached the hotel,

the CO drove past in his hired Toyota,

I waved and shrugged and he grinned

back at me whilst shaking his head.

I wonder what he said to his passenger.