there is a cottageat the edgeof the woodsin it lives a womana woman a woman,more.it lives in womenthe cottageat the edgeof the woods. the herbs that hang from the raftersbunches of mpephu and nettleand tulsi, the roses that growa blood thorned tangleswoon sweet andspread on october cloths to dry,the bottled elder turnedby the light of…
high summer on a damp air on skin morning i had moved an armchair outside the front door to write because the house was sleeping and the light seeping through leaves impeccable. time passed unmoving while skinless in the warmth of the soft mist morning i could no longer feel where my body ended, where…
(it is true our street was named for the first white settler who visited these shores with intent – in the seventies we thought this was ok) it was a childhood drawing of a house door window window walls bright yellow painted bricks. slightly to the right but still mostly in front, a jacaranda tree…
i carried the dust of that place on my feet, walked it here with thanks for the journey and stood long-shadowed in the dew wet grass. stood while the walking settled to stillness and the trees, popping bergwind seeds, cackled here – you are home, you are home.