By guest writer Jacqui Rowe
ALWAYS there were women. They trailed behind on weary donkeys, some pressing chubby infants to their breasts, or were unavailable in the turf-thatched inn on stilts above the highway.
Around the camp the women sat, patching coats and flags alike. Sometimes he wished he had one of his own, especially when the colonel’s wife came for the inspection, all scented hair and pearls and pointed toes.
That night he dreamt of a wood-panelled chamber, marble tiles for the floor, crimson curtains opening to summer, where a girl rose from a bath and waiting women like goddesses held out gauzy towels.
©Jacqui Rowe 2016