Dusty swathes of chaotic rubble lead to Kathmandu
as Annapurna blinks its goodbye through wafts of clouds
ribbons of white mince heavily on waters
that run alongside this world weary road.
The stepped hills patterned in khaki
pray to a portentous sky that bends over
huts of people who watch the world
alone with defensive, cynical eyes.

Nepal is a jewel hidden in a crystallised rock.

The landscape falls away as we round on a wake
of Vultures tearing into carrion flesh;
twisting sinew and bloody entrails seep
onto the road replenishing colour
to decaying shacks and filthy prayer flags
that flutter half-heartedly in torpid draughts
while the pale faces look on,
indolent in hammocks or up against
skeletal shards of shattered brick walls.

A tiny figure lies supine on the kerb of the bridge up ahead.
His ashen shoes split; his blackened toes are budding.
Drugged, he drowses replete on the roadside
where his pillows are empties and his coverlet the sun.
Eking out existence next to rocks on a highway
tourists look past him from their safe metal tins
at the churning, convulsing Seti Gandaki below.

Scrabbling survival like this makes me think:
here in Nepal potential’s forced dormant,
locked neatly away by needs such as
food, sleep and gods.
Talent’s the privilege of the rich
with time on their hands
and macs on their laps.

The bus moves on and I look behind
to see if the man has stirred
but he lies inert as the Vultures launch up
ascending quick to the skies
to frame this scene with their sated beaks
and their dripping, bloodied claws.

Later, a blind man outside the Boudha Stupa
looks right through me and the bridge comes to mind
so I press rupees into his rough blackened palms
and his hands close around them like dying petals
as the sun sets on Nepal once more.