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…