eight years

you are the child of the jackal,
the restless wildness of the dust summer wind
you are the child of animals
four legged devotion, a dog on your bed at night
the pillow makes space for the animals
your headspace is sacrificed in their best interests
the explorer after the dusk brings us indoors
the collector of branches
the carrier of firewood
the believer of woodash stars
a gentle footprint, a graceful walk on this earth
a new vision of this grey, overworked world.

Borders

Land creates a space
there are no invisible lines to cross
when the drought comes,
buffalo trek across the plains
feeling a skirmish, a shift in the landscape
the land is careless of one name,
breathing, dying, rainfall rising and falling
the rhythm larger than the living
claiming nothing,
accepting the flooded river years
the parched, scorched earth years.
Land is unmoving, free
there is a place,
An entitled habitat

There is no place for this child now
he hides her in a room during the day,
she is a shadow, two eyes behind a door
a recluse from childhood
unseen, frightened by daylight, by nightfall
she pulls away when offered a biscuit
there is no space where she belongs
walks,
She does not watch the sky for a thunderstorm
She has no natural rhythm of walking,
Or running down a street
She is foreign,

her borders have become smaller than a room
because someone, somewhere, years ago
put down a stake in the earth
with unnatural ceremony
and said,
this is mine.

Shining

my mother seals doors with oil to insulate the value
my father always polished doors, handles, boats
I have woken up too many times with longing for that time
the fireplace, the passage beckon at night, they call me
they sing to me with the bookshelves
tears only melt their endurance, and they fade too fast
I now know what to do
I look up, I hold up these wooden golden memories
the doors do not close with the moving night hours
I see the winter tree, the Christmas saturated garden
I walk into that kitchen, the stove is still holding our cupcake tray
instead of an empty searing heart bleeding into that sacred space
I hold it up,
take a cloth
I polish and polish these memories
until my fingers are raw
until they are reflected in front on me,
revived, eternal
I shine them until nothing can blur my vision
and lay down the cloth
the reflection is perfect
an untainted, renewed captured life
flowers, rainstorms
a picnic in the poplar forest
they shine more lively than the living.

Landscape Longing

the house stands empty of a family
flies buzz, sometimes the wind chime stirs
dogs lie dormant in the backyard sunshine
a new time weaves through this space
slower, quieter, sadder
but the golden end of day light stays constant
and there are objects which defy our absence
un touched, untidied away
Reverent as a closed museum,
Beautiful and untouched my time
a row of stuffed toys in dolls clothes
the end of the miniature fashion show
silent
the tower of animals and blocks
the meerkat keeping watch from the tower
a recipe book left lying open,
lamb baked with garlic and olives
lavender flowers in a small glass vase
wilting with neglect, but still alive
and the call of the jackal,
baboons shouting
echoing off the cliffs
as night falls.