Grass is bent by dew.
Cold…
Chink chink on the path;
shrouded impala, mystical fever tree;
Coffee ground sand.
Bushveld is brown …
Khaki perhaps?
Not all the time
Tim said.
See the mauve yellow lanterns
and silver web chains in sekwane;
the guinea’s blue head
with its touch of red.
Crimson glimpse of gwalagwala
and flowers of mvovovo;
scarlet slashes of msintsi;
the blue of flycatcher eye
and flash of lilac breast majesty.
The brown sand,
pierced by pointed prints,
turns to dust in the sun.
The bushveld sings too,
Tim said.
The midday mourning of the emerald-spot dove;
the ki…trrr of the kingfisher,
a bark snort warning of sentinel impala;
Hadeda KA-A … KAH!
Impempe and sharp rising whistles of herd boys;
the sizzling, piercing shree of Christmas beetles.
Do you remember, do you remember?
The partridge calls as soft evening falls…
Silent stars blink from above.
sillysocksonfriday 