| I am lying
by a stream; under an old willow tree. The sun is shining; birds singing summer songs. Water skips and dances over pebbles and stones. If you listen close, the wind is playing in the grass. I can smell the comfort of wet earth, as the dark storm clouds, unload their arms on far-off soil. I glance across a field where Springboks bop around. In these dark clouds, static fury sparks and shouts! It roars, for it’s might to be known; and for those that mock, it throws a mighty bolt, shaking African Ground. Over by the waterhole, as horses in jail-wear; zebra’s sniffing at the air, unsettled by the alarm of promised rain. In the water, hippo-heads float; one swipes a fly away with his ear. Beneath the waters, I know, hunting down a meal, dragons of old. I stretch one last time, savouring the aroma of African soil. I listen to the approaching thunder; the roar of a lion. I gaze at the multi-colour spectacle as the sun prepares to tuck in for the night. As I open my eyes I sigh, back at my desk; longing for an afternoon in my Africa. |
| By : Thys Groesbeek |