The sizzling shimmer of the early summer heat,

The distant folds of hills nestling mistily

With a presence that is all their own.

The smouldering stumps of last night's bush-fire

Sending silent messages to far-off shades of heaven.

The quiet streams with last year's watermarks,

And reeds lamenting at the water's edge

Sapped of the flood-torrent's vibrant energies.

Their time for deep reflection,

Repose from the seasons of laughter.

The bulls stampeding dust along the new-made road

With the herdsman desperately cracking the whip

At no-one but himself.

Heads down and horns all prancing round

Like a happy stage of jointed marionettes.

Let me rejoice in reverie

With the joy of freedom's worship far from the city smog,

In the breath of God's new spring, blossoming hope.

But the distant scene of memory is jolted

By another crack of that whip.

Chaanga

May 1971