My first taste of Africa, starting at the tip.

Place of smells and scents
And lights and darks
And Arabics and French  

There’s a lone star hanging
Over someone kneeling
On a mat by the pool, praying  

The moon will be out
Soon, once the hot pinks
Have trailed off, Marrakech  

Will twinkle and dogs will
Start up their nightly fuss
And countless lids will  

Lift to reveal simmering
Scented shanks bathed in
Quince or lemon-oil.