The hand woven bedouin rug lies on the sitting room floor, under wooden beams

She had yellow dust on her hands, as she knelt on the ground, felt it’s roughened wool and imagined it tattered and worn

Her thoughts lost in the other land, mules, roughened track where she had found her piece, desert sand seeping out of her bag

her desire to return to her well-lit home with a rug of her own

Years before she had visited this place, braved aromas and flies with a pack on her back

She had walked through stall after stall, saw a hundred different shapes, colours and shades and found one that reigned above all

No delight was shown on her face as she haggled with the man, scarred face aged tan, who finally came down to a good price

She reached inside for her purse, the straps were undone,

the money was gone

The hand woven bedouin rug lies on the on the sitting room floor under wooden beams in a well-lit, open-planned hall

The colours are not quite the same, bright shades have turned pale and holes appear in the path towards the door

She looks in to the next room, the carpet is thin, it hasn’t been torn, she bought it from down the road.

by odette