g h a f

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals/ the power of your intense fragility: whose texture/ compels me with the colour of its countries,/ rendering death and forever with each breathing
e e cummings

The ghaf is not a particularly good-looking tree: more like a ragged survivor growing in spurts where it can, with patchy outgrowths of foliage. It has a grey, deeply fissured bark and some thorns on the branches that didn’t look very dangerous. We left its shade regretfully, and only because the tire tracks disappearing into the desert promised lots of adventure.

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