Taybet Zaman

 
        We flit out,
        the three children and I
        (while the others nap)
        to explore the village
        with narrow passages
        that widen for no reason
        then shrink back...
        Steps are helter skelter
        here and there
        as the hotel is of a hillside
        of the land as it was found
        centuries ago…
        A place for huts to become homes
        and courtyards to spurt suddenly
        from behind a high wall.
        A community.
        Built with oddly shaped rocks
        mortared into solid, although
        unexpected, walls and arches and walkways.
        Now the residents have moved
        to concrete block residences
        up the road a bit.
        Places with chickens
        and goats and a donkey,
        wash on the line
        that sort of stuff.
        
        And these huts turned to homes turned
        to a quaint hotel.
       

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab