Moorish

She´s moorish
She could sit on the fine tables in any realm
She´d swap the sand for green pastures
she´d guide the cattle
without dogs

She´d use Gibraltar as a ferry again
like she did a thousand years ago

Reaching for northern isles
Where winter was a paranoid viking
Summer a pale blonde wanderer
Somewhere amongst the border bramble
I waited on her

Moorish she came to me
Subtle sweet I expected her permission
To pass between her lips
That we´d somehow catch each other in an embrace
So profound it would have me dance

Moreover clap
She´d take her tamborine and change
our children´s faces
Hope and new blood like food to a scavenging north
A mobile treasure soon to be gone
Certainly she tastes moorish.