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Monday 18 March 2019

Villages


Villages

Rolling through the broken landscape, the old road cracked at the edges,
surface cratered with potholes, hard-used and neglected
our progress precarious

A village –
the people curious and suspicious, houses broken and shell-holed
tarpaulins, ropes on the roofs, rusted, corrugated sheets bound into walls
pungent smoke from crumbling chimneys, old carpets draped in doorways
hunger in their eyes

The track twisting and turning, churning mud under tyres
the engine labouring, my arm aching from shifting the gears
my back breaking from the rolling and pitching
but moving forward

Another village –
no people, or perhaps hidden from view
echoes in the emptiness, smells of scattered straw
dirt and dung piled in the streets, the burnt black ribs of a house
deserted amid the rubble

Straighter again before plunging downhill through a gulley, arched by trees,
darkness for a few moments, flickering light dappling the windscreen
emerging at the foot of a valley
the car rolling and rattling

And another village –
tents here but no buildings, the women washing clothes in the river
their faces gritted with effort, bodies shivering with cold from the water
regard us with envy and disdain, their menfolk nowhere to be seen
danger in the darkness

Right foot down quickly, thankfully, left behind
in the fumes of our escape, diesel exhaust and dust
headed for the distant lights of town
blockades, barricades, checkpoints, the only things remaining
between ourselves and sanctuary

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019

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