we walk amongst the bones here. early rain has sprouted greenalong the path and buds drink swell waitto burst drunkenly into bloom human calcaneous and soft ball jointsfind footing on jutting mountain bones –sandstone knees and elbows –scapular, like a blade,like a contour, like a cliff,granite sternum and ribsto protect the heartbeating still – hips…
some mornings i forgetwith the metal of wheelbarrowleaning cool into the curlof fingers damp with mash,the grind of grit in axlea constant to the step gravel crunchof road underfootbuckets shufflingamong the slices of hay and the stamp and breath of horseswaiting down the end of the road,old now with sharp flanksand gentle eyes, and it…
in the mountains of our childhood there are stone sun paths, made by smaller feet than ours, that run contours through the bristle brush and crushed scent of fynbos. bright paths of wild lobelia and small bulbs exploding colour with names like beautiful women. paths that skirt boulders, sandstone giants skitting with small lizards in…