There is no mistaking you,

Standing poised by the jeep, surrounded by the fractured light

as the sun bounces off metal and glass,

Your head thrown back, emitting sounds, that I cannot hear,

Although I am imagining, the infectious

booming laughter, rolling from your lips. 

Images blown like paper,

Stirring, in the draft from an open window,

Random thoughts of you, connected like patchwork,

As I move closer, you shift, showing

a chistled profile, under the blue baseball cap,

The sculpted solidity of your form in the dark blue fatigues.Alluring.
I walk quietly towards you, but some sixth sense,

Causes you to turn,and I am caught 

mesmerised. By the brightness if your gaze,

Those glorious grey eyes flecked  with gold

Dominant your tanned face. Drawing me into your world,

My heart hammers.
I see the colours, the colours of the African day,

Reflected in the honey toned clarity of your skin, 

The vividness of your eyes, the silver of the 

stubble glinting on your chin, the crows feet

wrinkles, mirroring the drought parched  land.

Etched in memory.
Firm lips. Corners kinked into the hint of a smile,

Open, to speak words in accentless English,

Always a suprise given your antecedents, 

There is a hint of croaky gravelliness in your diction,

 Some harshness evident, registering impatience,

Actions and words, memories and interpretation.
You turn back, then lope  off with long strides, lithe as a big cat ,

Your controlled movements, denote a man of action,

Sexuality oozes, even from your retreating form,

How can you be defined?

Your charm, friends, words, the books you read, the inner man?

My Patchwork picture has empty squares.
There is a cold breeze raising goosebumps on my skin,

As you disappear into the heat haze,

Hopes, dreams,  and beliefs unshared,

Images blown like paper.

Stirring, in the draught from an open window

Whirling, swirling always mine.

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