Laala Kashef Alghata (18 February 1990)

I feel the nib of my quill scratch the surface
of the sheet I am writing on and I smile, feeling
a connection with the writers of old who used to
sit by their windows to salvage the last
of the sun’s soft beams before turning
away to light their candles and squint their eyes
to try to finish what they had started:
their masterpiece.

I feel the nib press patterns into the sheet
and I smile as I stain it with my thoughts,
thinking of proud old ladies with snow-white
hair and crow’s-feet at the edges of their eyes
and mouths, wrinkles that I admire and regard
as immense beauty, proof of a life well lived.
I feel their presence and advice floating
around me as I inhale their sweet musk and
talcum powder scent; I understand their warnings.

I feel the nib dig into the sheet laid out so pure,
and I regard the elegant quill with which I script,
and realise I am not those writers of old.

I am a passing echo of their memory.