On my last afternoon
in Mustang,
I met her for tea
at her mother’s
small guesthouse
beneath the base
of the mysterious sky caves.
We sat in wooden chairs
near the smoke-filled kitchen
before a crackling hearth.
Over the butter tea
and buckwheat cookies,
she suddenly pulled me closer,
pushed upon a wooden gate,
walked into the barren courtyard
of my heart and then planted
rhododendrons all over them
with her lips.
She then led me
through the green fields
of buckwheat to an orchard
brimming with apples.
Late afternoon light
spilt its glow on our faces
as we sat looking
at herds of mountain goats
trotting alongside the dusty trails
tended by an whistling shepherd
towards their shed.
A multi-coloured prayer flag
snarled in a tower
swayed gently in the distance
against an imposing
wall of snow-capped peaks.
That night we lay naked
beneath the apple trees.
Above us, the stars shining
in its branches
dappled everything.