First thing

in the morning

he rushes through his prayers,

muttering and mumbling,

listing all the saints,

fiddling with his prayer beads

staring at the ground,

troubled, muttering to himself,

then glancing at the sky -

up there

a few clouds

and many distant stars

Summertime

She never said, 'Good morning',

or asked if he slept well;

she never stroked his hair;

she never blew him a kiss,

a kiss from the depths of her heart -

nothing like the old days,

the good days.

Actually, she wasn't there:

she was in the stables

saddling the donkey

or milking the goats

for morning tea.

The birds had not begun

when Uncle Abdur-Raheem

reluctantly leaves home.

At the waterfront he meets

the other labourers;

some are from Ajjiref,

some are from the mountains.

'How's it going?' he asks;

he banters with them -

they wind him up,

but Uncle Abdur-Raheem

doesn't take the bait;

people round here

never get worked up:

get angry with who?

get angry about what?

Here, they're all friends,

like one big family;

even if they're not related

they're all in the same boat;

'Whatever happens', they say,

'long may you live, my friend;

have hope, despite it all.'

Uncle Abdur-Raheem

you were a farmer once upon a time,

free to fall asleep and

free to get up when you liked;

no clocking in

no timed lunch-breaks,

watering your fields on moonlit nights

planting under the stars.

But time is a wheel that never stops