Khakbad

Khakbad (say 'hokbod'): a duststorm like the one that blew in a week ago and again today (the photo was taken mid-morning). The conditions are a decrease in temperature - it's about 10 degrees celcius compared with yesterday which was a balmy 25 - combined with poor visibility and a fine dust in the air which covers everything, inside and out. Needless to say, my warm clothes are out including a down jacket I was hoping to save until winter and it's only late October! Guess this doesn't bode well for the quality of insulation in my house either.

This Moment – A Writing Exercise

Right at this very moment I am sitting at a small, cute writing desk. The wind is blowing outside and you can hear its drafty song in the house and especially the window frames. It plays a pretty tune in the chimes that hang at the entrance but there is something melancholy in that sound. The leaves on the trees flutter as though nervous about the world beyond the garden which I overlook. Trucks and cars make their way through the pot-holed streets and the dust rises to fill the air. It is quietly filling this upstairs room and it smells dry and earthy. A thin layer of dust coats the keyboard even now after only two days in Mazar-e-Sharif where the desert sands covers the city like a prayer shawl. The sunlight is diffused by the haze and casts dancing shadows on the once white curtain. The coffee I am drinking is black. Just off that perfect temperature that is neither scalding nor easy to gulp, it sits to the right of my computer – an old Dell with a dead battery. Every time it starts the message that pops up reads: ‘Your battery needs to be replaced’. It’s been that ways for over a year now. Connected to an external power source it functions but it is not fast. Some would say it is obsolete. However, it can keep up with the steady plod of my fingers as I write and seems to remember my words well enough. ‘Need’ is a relative term. If the power cuts now I’ll only have about six minutes to finish my work and save this piece. What more can I say? I am getting to know the people in this house – a family of five – and am friends already with the other guest. Outside the compound is a land and culture I do not really know nor understand. This city is to be my home for the next two years. Home. A funny word I find. Will I ever feel like this is home? Will any place? I’m not sure I can remember what home used to feel like. Once it was a house shared with my family. Is it simply a place shared with others you love? Yes, but not quite that alone. Great love seems to be required for a man to settle. That might be home and I suppose that’s what I take home to be: a place where my heart is. Home is about belonging to place and people. My heart belongs no one nor to anywhere special. Except wherever I am. Lightly holding memories dear. Now I’m in Afghanistan.

In & Out of Season

Brown leaves swirl

At Caravan’s door

Like a spectral Dervish

Making its entrance

Then settling to observe

Comings and goings

As friends meet and travel on

Paths crossing, woven together

In a timeless thread

Of silk roads to desert lands

For a season or longer

The route ancient yet clear

Like the stark branches

Silhouetted against grey sky

Steeling themselves for winter

The thrill of adventure imminent

Risk and uncertainty foreshadowed

In the face of hardship

A soul laid bare, quiet

The stillness of knowing

Turns to joy unexpected

Faith and hope enduring

Before new life erupts

With the hidden promise

Of springtime in Exmouth Market

And love in its proper season

41 Ways to Love

How will they know grace

If they see only judgement?

How will they know freedom

If they see only law?

How will they know truth

If it’s not revealed

In word and deed

Around the home?

Love as you are loved

Room with a View

Longing for England

Dreaming of England

Since childhood I knew

I couldn’t simply pass through

Again and once more

Surely affection true

Coal smell and fox sighting

The Lake District, age six

At twelve, scuffling with Mackems

On a snowy boat ramp

Cementing my allegiance

To the team on the Tyne

Now the train slips through fields of green

In this country longed for

A cottage, a view

And hope endures

But not alone

Company in the arms of another

Far from the madding crowds

And rail tracks too

The landscape of Hardy’s time

Summer days declaring

“Life is good!”

Now as autumn leaves turn

Towards winter’s long shadow

I cast my own

Adventure in Afghanistan beckons

Calling to me: “Come, seek, find”

As I look eastwards

All that awaits I embrace

My prayer answered at thirty-seven

It was a fine season in Blighty

But for you my love

A fine season indeed