Poems (Forrest)/Grains of sand
GRAINS OF SAND
The melon-seller goes to-day in fine red slippers shod; He spreads his store upon the ground, ripe melons gold and green,Some arabesqued in spidery white—a breakfast for a god— Some coloured deep as Chinese jade with slices set betweenOf rose-red pulp. The desert blows sand-grains upon his waresAs with black pip and honey juice the passer-by he snares.
He lifts an orange sackcloth tent betwixt them and the sky, Then seeks the shelter of the palms and most devoutly prays.He heard the yellow camels pass, he watched them stringing by; Perhaps he saw a beckoning hand where one rich burden sways,Or little hennaed foot look out with jewels on the toes—There came a whiff of ambergris that on the heart-fire blows.
I know the melon-seller dreams; he goes barefoot no more. His turban shows a gleaming stone, he smells of orange flowers,The muslins of his flowing dress are whiter than before. Instead of hawking melons now he muses through the hours;He gazes where the blue skies meet the brown walls of the khan,And always through his dream he hears a tinkling caravan.
Did it come from Arabia with cinnamons and gum? Did it rock in from Kandahar with jars of liquid flame?With willow wands and Persian silks and ambers did it come? It does not matter what the route—he only knows it came.To-night it rests within the khan. There is no moon to lightThe little window in the wall—much may be done tonight.
For when the melon-seller moved to where the shadows lie I saw the ridge beneath his robe a hidden weapon made.There came the flapping of the wings of vultures down the sky; Perhaps they guessed the uses of a blue Damascus blade.Oh, is it for a hidden sheik or for himself he woos?Was it blood-money or a theft that bought a bare man shoes?
To-morrow when the camels rise to take their wooden crates Out to the shimmering desert line-the "thirst of the gazette"—Will that rich palankeen jolt through the frowning city gates To-morrow, when the dawning paints with amethyst the well?Or will it sway—an empty nest—from one white bird's releaseWho scents some hungry bearded lip with musks and ambergris?
And will the orange sackcloth screen sway gently in the breeze, While flies upon the melons pounce to drink the sugared sap?Will that poor seller cry his fruits beyond the clustering trees, With furtive counting of the gold chance poured into his lap,And fear he never felt before for every stranger's hand,While ever from the desert blow the glittering grains of sand?
Or will the scattered melons fall to rot upon the ground— No luscious reds and greens again to tempt the caravan—The sackcloth tent a coverlid for bridal sleep be found, Or hide beneath its orange folds the body of a man?(Thought on its racing camel goes so wildly and so fleetBecause a melon-seller wears red slippers on his feet!)
But those who touch the desert's rim know many desert things— Blown to their hearts as grains of sand are on the melons blown—How marriage feasts are followed by the swoop of evil wings, And there are poison cups behind the arras of a throne.Between the swathings of a veil a grain of sand may slip,Till fancy seals a lover's kiss upon a virgin lip.
A flick of gems may set ablaze a fire to scourge a land, An uncut melon hold a slip of parchment closely writ;And fate may place instead of flowers a dagger in your hand, And chance may mutter in your ear the need for using it.For those who live upon the edge of an enchanted strandCan read strange stories in the dance of drifting grains of sand!