The Bedouin


A little piece of surreality on a wet October day…


The tent had been erected overnight, unknownst

to the bin man who had to manoeuvre his truck

around it. Not the normal first thing to be seen.

Not in this small town in a sectarian desert

where instead of sweet olive trees is grown

bitterness and mistrust by the hedge load.


‘Ye can’t be leaving that here!’ he growled

before getting out of the lorry. On removing

himself from within he was more considered

saying, ‘Are you aware that your tent is

in a restricted area? Deconstruction of such

may be the only option in this pre Brexit era.’


The Bedouin smiled the smile of no understanding

and pointed to the many wondrous items

hanging freely on strings. There was meat,

fish, chicken of all colours due to the spices.

The smells and smokes enticed the unsuspecting

council worker. His nose was overwhelmed.


His eyes felt the searing edge of the scimitar.

Its curved silver blade pointed at his wounded

kneecaps. ‘Ah the good old days,’ he mused.

He ventured further in under the rippling skin

and partook of confections, the likes of which

had never crossed his Irish dinnered lips.


‘So eh, what are ye doin’ here?’ he asked

more to be mannerly than anything. Confusion

leaned on him and duty cut salt like against

the sweetness of this foreign visitation.

The Bedouin pointed toward a small collection

of deeply filled pillows, ornately embroidered.


‘Ye want me to sit?’ ‘Well ok, but not for long

coz my boss will be here to restore order.’

Again the Bedouin offered a wide smile.

The smile of a confident man, assured that

welcomes and offerings and simplicity

outweigh suspicion and the call of clocks.

About divilthebit

Husband/father/musician (guitar, banjo) singer/songwriter/poet, storyteller, writer ( Irish speaker, B&B proprietor
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