What I can remember are taxis and a long walk by the docks
smell of oil and tar and fish-stalls by the mosque –
where were you, daughter, who crept out in photographs?
Those white buildings, white as blind eyes, and the casbah
with its deceit of lanes and entrances; and a donkey
for no reason still as held breath in the middle of the street
Where were you in all of this, can you remember for me?
I needed cheap wine and pills to keep me buoyant
someone to read the street-maps, take care of us both
Invisible to myself, was I invisible to you? Dust and blue sea,
afternoons heavy and viscous as poured concrete –
rank wine in the teeth and a tongue burnt by black tobacco
Postcards that told lies, I wrote them in the old French rooms
needing witnesses, the post-box became a confessional –
we’re as out of touch now as then, images with their colours bled
Out, we may as well not have existed. Algiers did that
and the other places, exotic or plain,
I doubt we trailed a decent shadow through all that light.
Fred Johnston was born in Belfast and lives in Galway, where he founded the Western Writ-ers’ Centre. His most recent collection of poems is Alligator Days (Revival Press).
Content from our partners
Related
This article appears in the 11 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The anti-Trump