Sirocco

The wind is out of Africa this evening. A southerly wind blowing hot and bringing fine grained sand from the Sahara. By first light the streets, parked cars, our balcony, all will be covered with a light dusting of Africa – red toned, redolent of ancient cities and lost causes, Carthage, Egypt, Alexandria.

Only one row of buildings forms a barrier between our windows and the Sirocco, between the southernmost tip of Europe and Africa’s primeval presence.

With nightfall the wind shifts round to the southwest, now cooler, bringing a hint of far Atlantic salt. The windows are open in the apartment across the way. Sheer white curtains billow. I see a room in glimpses as the curtains first reveal then obscure. A deeply tanned woman in a white shift moves slowly towards her lover and as she lowers herself to the bed I look away.

I look to the stars, so brilliant, so beautiful, indifferent to the wind, to the lovers, to me. The cooling Sirocco caresses my bare limbs and chest. The heat of the day fades and another heat arises. I leave my balcony and go inside.