Casablanca

Upon the cusp of dawn in calm Casablanca,
the harbour sighs like an old dear’s lullaby,
its waves lapping the quay wrought in copper‑coloured dreams.

The city, a half‑dream of stone and incense,
wakes to the hum of the train and the distant snore
of the Hammam, where steam becomes a whisper of the past.

At the depths of the bazaar, where carpet‑rich stalls hold the scent
of mint and cumin, a sense of historic pulse can be felt –
the echo of a hero’s march across the Tizi‑Nacredd, the beat
of a saxophone beneath the glow of neon.

From a balcony, the African sky spills gold over the sea,
and young Brits, with beans of sambuca tucked in pockets, marvel
at the quartered architecture that fears no time.

Voices rise in a chorus that reminds one of that
famous ’42 film, the lines echoing the truth that love,
ever a stranger, is the most Welsh‑ish of quests;
its familiar comfort in a foreign sea.

The Casablanca night is a moonlit programme
of stories wrapped in a silky amber from the market,
where fishermen chart the world's unknown, and every honest traveller shall find in its rhythm a strange and generous dream.