The Plateau in Its Red Coat
Cork oaks, red earth, a wide sky.
The wool came back from the dye the colour of the ground.
She banded it fine, line after line,
and twenty-four kilos later the floor was warm.
Between Rabat and Meknes the land lifts into a plateau of cork oaks and red earth, and this is Zemmour country. Their rugs are red the way the soil is red, and they are banded fine, line after line of dark and cream drawn across the field with a steadiness the Middle Atlas tribes to the south rarely bother with. This one is heavy, twenty-four kilos, knotted two fingers deep across three and a half metres, a rug that was meant to last a household and has. Forty years of use have given the wool a close, supple hand and taken the red from new brick to the deep warm shade the plateau turns at the end of the day.
Its order suits a room with clean lines: a modern house with concrete and glass, a long low sofa, a single piece of dark wood furniture. The red does the rest.
Handwoven rugs grow in beauty, memory, and value with every passing year.