the bar empty
except for the person
polishing her nails visibly
not in any mood
for conversation
and the red-coated huntsmen
climbing the walls

so I turn
my attention to the carpet
and its geometry of regularity
of the kind woven
by nomads their spindles
rising falling to the rhythm
of shambling donkeys and

squatting outside black tents
on the high summer pastures
or in sharp candlelight
when snow leans against
the pavilions further whitens
the fleeces waiting to be dyed
and spun into the meaning

of life its mysteries unrolled
in a language of rigidity
and order carried
on the backs of camels
in slow dignity with sheep's bells
to the markets caravanserais
ships' holds and into the meeting

rooms of treasurers a boot
has scuffed up a corner
of the carpet and like
a patch of shaded summer snow
a label

Cornelius Poad & Son
Brighouse

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