Jill Rees: Welcome Press

Across the Strait

A bleeding sun dies
behind the Blue Mosque
the Call to Prayer sings.
I lean over the chain
to feel the breeze on my face
as the sweat of the day cools
on the fresh ferry deck
and lean on your strong arm,
to attract your attention
surreptitiously.

Back on the Asian shore
I avoid your eyes
because they are the colour
of the Bosphoros
and would leave me paralysed,
but through my lashes I can see
you smile, unspoken,
and we all laugh at the joke,
but sustain our act.
Would you like a beer, my love?
and I will not call you my love
- it’s a pact.

We have searched the ports
of Europe and Asia alike
and found sailors are the same
whenever they swagger.
We live our lives like a play:
act one, scene one, day one,
but in the night we sit alone,
looking out of our separate windows
at the crescent moon,
the silver star, hanging
like a flag over the
Belbety Palace, reflecting
In your eyes and my eyes
As we cling to our determined loneliness.

In the morning the sun rises
yellow to the Imam’s call,
I turn over again to
hold you in my arms
and find dried tears on my face.
Continents are rent in two,
lovers never kiss, and time
tells us to say goodbye at the station
with a handshake.

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Tags: Continent, Europe, Sea, Sun