my father would have said it was going to rain if he saw that half moon flipped over in the afternoon sky, he would have said die maan gooi water though it was neither his language nor mine. he would have gloated in the morning at the emptied barrels new filled with night rain, but…
1. and then the earth shall tremble 2. “the researchers stressed a growing need for crops that are planted, weeded and harvested with decreased human involvement, which in turn can reduce labour costs and improve yield.” 3. it is true that what we sow is what we reap and sow we do – but…
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…
sacred to the god thoth, ibis lands to roost for the night in the scraggle pine grown old amongst abandoned boats and warehouses down at the shore there is an opening and closing of white wings between friends – perhaps some dark laughter at all we have let fall and then a bowing of heads…
sunday leaves quiet with the sun slipping the hills, spilling rectangular between the greying trunks of trees – alone on the wire turtle dove rustles smudge feathers, smooths them for flight – exhales the day.
when park benches and schools were reserved for whites only and television only told one truth and russia was going to destroy us with communism or a nuclear bomb if america didn’t beat them to it, we rode our our bicycles in school holidays – ate popcorn and green apples along new roads rolling out…
if my being in the world is enough it implies my living – as my being here alive right now, is how i am here at all. it is living that being that asks for action for quickening enlivening deepening there is no compromise either my foot on this path enlivens, dirt tread – leaf…
new moon in august sows summer dreams of tomatoes succulent hung christmas bauble amongst the vines – of squash and melon swelling with the sun of long days, evening river swims and the unquenchable mystery of a year that turns and turns again. last night was burn-cold and bright with stars when i checked on…