In the Atlas mountains

Poem by Roger Iredale

Five faces and a white-nose
ass disrupting dust rise up
the slope of olive trees

past bearing. Bent to the quick
a woman bears her load
of hoarded water, children

linger upwards, bearing theirs.
Centuries, the villages high up
have needed children

and the water for the dry
sun sapping them. More
children bear more water.

And the women, dry
tall, bent and silent
bear them all.

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