Phantasmagoria

The off-coast island seems to float upon
A layer of grey sky, a blurred green mass
Of tangled trees and, in between, vague lines,

A castle and the graceful tower of
The old muezzin – in the narrow streets
There's women's fine embroidery and beads

To grace their yashmaks, drowsy peace along
The door's intricacy. There will be fish
Brought to the harbour and the shabby dhows

Will dazzle those on shore when from their holds
They pour their magic treasure: fairyland
To gaze upon - until the sun breaks through

And those white lines become industrial,
While just halfway a cutter's progress takes
A long thin line of seagulls in its wake.