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At Kabul airport, a man I mistook for a foreigner   A security guard, red-haired with blue eyes and pale skin, patting me down I couldn’t help but look him directly in the face And he returned the compliment before joking with his colleagues in Dari He looked just like a guy who sells fashion-wear on Lamb’s Conduit When – I wondered – when in the archeologies of all the civilisations that have passed through these mountains and deserts was he deposited here? I thought he was Irish   Waiting at the gate with sun whiting out the hazy mountainous horizon and a beautiful greenhouse of a morning Two helicopters fly across the silhouetted, flattened scene Always in twos Humming like insects – of course – across the sky Then two more And another pair…and another Five pairs in all They pass from left to right in the two-dimensional morning, from east to west was it? I am not sure Perhaps north to south   And then they return, arcing back in a line like a scorpion’s tail, descending one after the other to land like a stairway or a ski-lift Afterwards three aircraft, flashing in like birds, swooping to land almost together, without a second thought   We wind up above Kabul in a corkscrew   *   In Herat we land hard and fast after a steep turn and a roll from side to side, wing to wing A drone under concave shelter Like a toy, in pale grey, or grey white As we pass out it departs, trailing electronically through the sky   The hum of activity   A long, straight road, lined with tall pines For some reason surprised that the Russians (or the British) didn’t raze them   The office like a summerhouse, rose bushes and red carpets, and warm, sky-blue air An elaborate (but probably cheap) golden mirror above a sink on the first-floor central landing, a touch of grand decay   The security situation – like everywhere – is deteriorating in the province For civilians and aid workers, for police and security Threats abound The Taliban and others are rich with poppy harvests, busy gaining influence from a