In the mist procession
wending past my life,
there are many old shapes
so many new faces,
that I see sometimes,
and sometimes again.

Sometimes,

amidst bookshelves
adjusting dust covers
and writing bills,
almond eyes
round face
hill-fresh gaunt limbs

Sometimes,

on carpet lined corridors
Salver on finger tips
black and white minstrel
black dot
black shock
of hair
waiting on others.

Sometimes,

fetching files
answering bells
carrying missives
back and forth
high born
plains bred

Sometimes,

Scythian profiles
standing guard
at a far-off chancery
warrior images
erect and greying gently

Sometimes,

in the Qutb’s shadow
hawking carpets
machine made,
lurking under a tree
in darkening gloom,as shadows close
over old tombs
and watered grass.

Sometimes,

In a desert palace
behind a hotel counter
booking rooms for Germans;
then climbing narrow stairs
to hidden terraces
and niches with curtained doors.

Sometimes,

in spiked shoes
long-legged
slim-hipped paces,
as metres vanish
hair rises in the wind
and the shape is lost
to distant spaces.

And the mist procession
moves on
in never ending traces,
so many new shapes
so many old faces
that I see sometimes
and sometimes again.