On Brighton’s pebble beach, patrolled by seagulls,
two women sat in white linen.
Each fingered the warm beach pebbles
feeling the last of the spring day’s warmth.
We watched as they stood, gathering clothes and shopping.
One draped a scarf around her neck
and placed her hand on the other’s head in a gentle benediction.
Printed on her bag was a simple instruction:
Find Heaven
Month: May 2025
Father and son play Gnaoua music
In what was once a palace.
The son holds his guembri
As one day he will hold his baby.
When he sings, his voice is far away.
Father, lifts his Krakeb, one in each hand,
Then, seeing there was work to be done,
Commands the stage:
Taka Bik Bok
Taka Bik Bok
Taka Bik Bok
The guembri plays a different beat
It shifts the flow
Taa ta tata ta, tata tat ta
Taa ta tata ta, tata tat ta
Taa ta tata ta, tata tat ta
Three beats play against two
Now krakeb lead:
Ta dila tat, ta dila tat
Ta dila tat, ta dila tat
Ta dila tat, ta dila tat
And over this vocals call
And respond
Call
And respond
And then once more.
Until at some unseen signal,
Father and son in unison,
Hold their music close,
Drawn into their hearts.
Then, before the final flourish,
Father moves us on again –
Son’s thumb slaps the guembri skin
Then krakeb go:
Dura dura, dura dura, dura dura
Guembri goes:
Doe du reera, doe do reera, doe do reera
Together they go:
Doe ra ro reera, Doe raro reera, doe ra ro reera.
This music atones.
Call, response, competing rhythms
Knock the edges off each other
Until all forms melt.
This is me, this is you,
This is our ancestors speaking;
And they speak in the language of song.
Those who came before
Dipped their cups in the same melodic well
Where we drink today,
Where the water is always fresh
And no two mouthfuls taste the same.
Nothing comes of nothing.
Slaves from West Africa
Brought their spirits to the Maghreb.
They met with Sufism in the musical garden.
Together they had so much healing to do.
They brought music, perfume, and colour to their task
And said all physicians shall be artists then
And all cures shall be sung.
All physicians shall be artists
And all cures shall be sung.
We all choose how we fly,
But there were times I feared
That you would fly with Icarus,
Your hot feathers unstuck from their glue.
But then you found your song,
Your music soared over valleys
And hugged the tight cliffs –
With just a few crash landings.
Your peregrine wings on jet streams swept the world.
Flocking with friends and resting in the eaves of strangers.
Avoiding lime traps and random guns,
One day you came home to England.
In an old mill, nested in hills, tides rise and sometimes overwhelm,
But when the sea retreats, the earth is soft and fertile,
The sun warms the ground and songbirds fill your room
Until it overflows with music rising in the strummed air.
We know that nothing lasts but nothing that is real is lost,
So, use your Icarus wings,
Find your sun-filled voice that sings
To the unstuck feathers.