Westdene 1980

A promise you made

to a teary child,

on the sticky leatherette seats

of one of a host of overheating beetles

is now understood,

but won't be forgotten.

You came out of reverse,

before pausing the trip to school

with a crunching of driveway pebbles

and a reassuring creak of the handbrake.

With a look that informed me what you were about to say

would transcend our morning rush

and quell my biggest worry.

And it did.

Do you remember? 

Girl in the Tree

                                         The only clue to the pandemonium

                                          that took place here before

                                          is the girl who swings on the breeze.

                                          The lacy polyester of her dress,

                                          murderously fashioned into a cord

                                          from a branch to her neck.

                                          Disheveled hair with the remnants of a mother's plaits,
                                          bound into a wispy hood by the noose.

                                          Her legs mudded and streaked with clotted blood.

                                          The tree stands nourished and stout.

                                          Exposed knuckle-like roots offer inkling

                                          to its deep relentless grip on the land.
                                          Through its leaves dance diluted sun beams,
                                          flickering,as if waning hope

                                          on the faces of the gathering crowd,

                                          who assemble surely in its stretching shade
                                           to stare at the girl in the tree.

Albasini Dam

Oom Piet at Albasini,

severs an earthworm

on rough dry thumbs,

then patiently mimics rejoining it

to make sure I’d seen how.

There’s been a drought for years,

and Abasini Dam tauntingly shimmers

away from the parched vegetation,

now long abandoned

by the ebbing water and cloudless 
Transvaal skies.

Our bamboo rods lie, bridging dongas

that furrow the exposed lake bed.

The sun annexes the chirping of crickets

and marries it into mirages 
that simmer from the love grass
and splendid acacia.

Oom Piet hooks his half of the worm
(The memory of the veins in
his dark forearms impresses me still.)

and nods kindly as I successfully follow suit.

He picks up his rod and casts

before ducking slightly as I do the same.

The two floats, whittled from pine bark,

jitter on Albasini's sparkle.

Oom Piet lovingly affords mine more attention
than his own,

silently willing it into a plunge

and a fish.

The Termini Flower

And there she was,

between platforms.

Withered face, deep set blue eyes,

veiled hair and a toothless smile.

I’d seen her in stories.

The tiny foil folded flower

she held for me

hushed Rome Termini.

Painstakingly created,

juxtaposing her leathery hands.

I plucked it from the unlikely delicateness of her fingers

and thanked her sincerely.

Faux goodwill melted from her face,

as my naivety dawned on us both,

her hands formed a heart-sized bowl.

The suspended station click-clacked back to a roar.

Money!

She stabbed

Money!

I tried to give the flower back,

but she let it fall.

And as it disintegrated

into mere trash on the station floor,

she pinched me and drew blood.

Memory of a Mamba

I saw a mamba,

A black one,

Looping at pace,

Risking the path,

Being seen

And the stones that would follow.

I remember seeing dead ones

Being dragged around,

Like armless puppets

On wires,

Over gravel roads

Lifelessly chasing happy shoeless legs.

But not this one.

After its tail

Had darted from the trail,

And the lovegrass

had recovered

To its regular jive with the breeze,

I remained still,

Transfixed,

And afraid to cross its path.

Prostitute

Prostitute!

Laughter lashed at me;

the fire seemed fueled by the derisive crack-up

of twelve year olds.

Right,

declared the khaki-clad man,

campfire court!

Cicadas screamed from the flickering trees.

There’s been a murder!

The accused is thirst.

He held up an empty glass.

We’ll need a judge.

Timothy,

you kept your cool out there today.

You be the judge!

Embers weaved up fixing into stars.

Who else works in a court?

Hands fired up, mine too,

his eyes moved beyond me;

fire danced up his cheeks.

Sammy?

A defendant?

Excellent!

You be that!

Stand to the left of Timothy.

I shuffled from a kneel to a sit.

We’ll need one more.

I brushed dry leaves off my etched knees

and began to rake my mind.

This one argues against the defendant...

No hands.

He’ll say it WAS thirst that killed our traveler...

anyone?

No?

Ok, it starts with a P...

Pa, pa, pros…

I punched a hole in the night sky.

Yes? 
It’s Roy, right?
And you’re going to be the…

The Last Stop

After years on his route

He sits still in humble shade

Reluctantly idling

In a lower gear

He sits still in humble shade

Slowly surrendering

To the winged passengers on his arms

The browning of his lawn

He starts slightly in his seat

To the four o’ clock

Tsik tsik tsik of his neighbor’s sprinkler

Bends a foot out of the encroaching sun

After years on his route

He reverses further from the road

Foot off the pedal- out of the sun

The last stop

A Moment with the Maid

Grasped in furrowed hands

The clothes are wrung waterless

And hung in Transkein hot wind

By arms reaching up to high wires

Plump brown antennae

Over the exuberantly coloured cloth

That wraps her

The berg wind carries her Xhosa song

Gathering the smells of lawn and linen

To the young white boy sitting on the steps

Behind the prefabricated house

That pretends it’s in suburbia

Or anywhere but Umtata

She hangs his Superman t-shirt

While he crashes plastic trucks

Dear Jungle John

Dear Jungle John

Recall the devil

That allowed you to

Forge the alloy of your inventions

Who assassinated your last

Obsequious nerve with an

Eyeful of possibility

That twisted you around

A thorny sprig of reclusion

To toil over what

You would uniquely, shockingly

Usher to matter

Ask it to come round

All love

roy

The Big Cheese

The hospital

As a child I called it The Big Cheese

The Joburg General

Yellow and holey

Swiss Emmental

I recall

Disney on the children’s walls

Unavailingly dampening cries

Softening needles

Doctor’s lies

Watched by Gentlemen

Not Sleeping with Avril

A sleepless Sunday night

The vapid Avril Lavigne line

Singing Radiohead at the top of our lungs… something something na na na

Washes onto the morning sand

And finally dissipates mockingly into the grains

Releasing my brain to the flogging of the alarm clock

The worries that tossed and turned me

Between midnight and six this morning

Chuckle as they reveal themselves as trivial

Avril stuffs the worries and her song into a punky Burberry bag

As I stretch lamely for the alarm

See ya tonight fucker!

She dawdles away across the sand

Turning to give me the finger

The Park

I won’t question the half-buried wires

Or tap inquisitively on the hollow rocks

We savour the birds through hidden speakers

In the shade of the city we shed our socks

I’ll take the prefabricated serenity

Rest on the lawn covered cement

Gaze up at the planes through plastic leaves

What’s reality if we're content?

A Ride by the Lake

I guess it made sense
to ride by the lake
where we'd apparently
fallen in love,
and see it under renovation;
It had seemed so remote,
so real.

You'd eaten a clover
and winced with its sour
after failing to blow free
the parachutes of a dandelion.

Now the entire lawn
was rolled into bales,
exposing its underside,
clearly a carpet.

The trees lay prone,
their roots exposed
as muddy mops of perished wire.

Also baskets of little things:
the insects, the dandelions
and yes,
the clovers (It must have tasted bland and rubbery those years ago.).

I'd dived naked into the water;
I'd heard you liked spontaneity
and had tried to coax you in;
I couldn't.
(You’d laughed though and fiddled with little things that grew and flew.)

I'd free-stroked
and held my breath
for what for you I hoped seemed like
a reckless length of time.

Now the lake lay dry;
cleaners swept sediment
from the fibreglass bed
and attentively
scrubbed the seams;
I doubt there'd ever been fish.

I guess it made sense
to ride by the lake
where we'd apparently
fallen in love,
and see it under renovation;
It had seemed so remote,
so real.

Some Certainties

Someday my love,

Death’s shoulder will pry us asunder,

And scatter the colours of this bubble

Afar where they will run and mix.

For my part until then,

I will pull in the corners of this portrait

And tend to the vertices of our union,

Adorn the walls with romance

Kind words and attempts,

And relish our unlikeliness

Each day my love.

Mayibuye

Mayibuye she says

Come back

You’re as arid as a glass of sand

You've forgotten us

Your land