Possession

I have been dispossessed from a country
displaced from my name
but I have not lost my landline
because my greatest connection is the land
the land I walk on is my lifeline
my friend, my daily reassurance
the field, the red earth
the fire smoke farmland
the grey all consuming ocean
birds crossing the horizon at daybreak
calling me back to the forefront
thy have become my allies
reliable, punctual rhythms, no questions
no answers.

Prayer

Tonight in the grey winter

With commuter and traffic

Leaves on the grass, familiarly

I ask for a crystal ball

The insight of elders

The rain soaked, heat swept away ones

I ask for the future, 

For children keeping a magical world

Where animals talk

A place of private joy

Where I watched leaves change,

Uninterrupted

Firestarter

I have learnt to make fires

At first desperately

At first I lost courage

The small branches smoke

And show no potential

I hasten more wood

The smoke only grows darker

No brave flame survives

I sat back, cold and defeated

With time, I learnt to wait

When the smoke seemed a circling reality, at that moment a fire ignites

The flames gather strength

And eventually, conquer

Retro Speculation

This was a lost time
a stable temperature soft time
something old, tried and tested
dusted and polished

It is always four o clock
the sun is slanted, heat infusing the room
the birds are suspended in their end of day calls
tea poured, the fire made
the moment sealed
addressed, signed and sent.

Duckpond

A delicate, vibrant young joy

In this, the smallest of universes

Sunlight dapples through the bare trees

The meat smoke smell of lunch

Persistent bird calls, quiet dove soothing repetitives

An abandoned duck enclosure sets the scene

For the land of princesses and thieves

Bare branch sword fights.

Hiding behind the empty duck pond

She waits, short silent breaths

Wary of discovery, she doesn't move

Waiting for her young enemy to falter

One rustle of the groundcover
a betrayal of a little footstep

She will know, and attack.

The Student

cleaned of a slate
I have the piano fingers of the beginner, long and shaking
my teachers have taken me
these are my teachers
they are the people of Africa
the land,
the cattle sheds holding light and wisdom
in the tangled undergrowth
the land, accepting under dust and war
unmoving under the stars sending new days across the night
gates gathering dust, rust
less movable, but stable


Land has been my confidant
but my greatest teacher
has been the people of this land
those now in silent dry wind watched graves
I have watched these people
they wait, walking slowly
assuming nothing but potential harm
smiling in the cold
laughing in the dark
quietly keeping monthly supplies
there are no presumptions in Africa
there is no relief, no redemption
there is a day, an hour, a joke
an appreciation that we will all walk to the grave
but that for now
we are alive.