Writer of Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction
Writer of Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction
‘It takes a village to raise a child’ YORUBA PROVERB
The rest of us are dressed for January’s
damp chill but she greets us on the driveway in
cool boots, black tights, black skirt, white shirt, and red cloak
Grandma has made for TikTok performances.
She smiles briefly, then gurns. A homemade cake
is brought carefully through the front door,
with candles blazing, duly blown out.
We sing the song, and mark her eleven years
upon the earth. She is lovely,
In a local church hall we wait, with fellow
ancients, for our first Pfizer vaccination.
Ours is a generation that has received,
since childhood, the blessings of technology
and science. Though the glitter ball
is stationary and the stage curtains drawn
there are shades still of dancing and pantomimes –
and, in the observation tent outside,
the fifteen minutes is quite jolly,
definitely determined. We humans are
social animals, prone to good causes.
We drive home in warm,
For Fikekahle Dlalisa
The casual use of an American
penal term as a figurative cliché
suggests our usual status quo is being
in some sort of custody. In consequence
the clamour of public nonsense rises
about the nature and scope of liberty.
Freedom is choice not action. Walking
with a Zulu friend in a busy mall
on the edge of Soweto, “Look,” he said,
“see how people do not crowd each other,
From Moscow to London, Stockholm to Venice
the world froze at 10, 12, 15 below
for three months. Wine froze in bottles, cows in byres,
and wolves came down to villages scavenging.
Tree trunks shattered. Church bells once rung fractured.
Travellers crossed the Baltic on horse-back,
skaters glided under the Rialto.
The War of Spanish Succession was paused
for more clement weather – and regiments
of Swedish soldiers died in Russian blizzards,
ceding victory in the Great Northern War
to Peter the Great almost by default.
Streaks of greyish cloud above the lovat hills
on the far shore attenuate the sunset
with striations of orange and yellow.
For a moment clouds part, and the sun
radiates a shearing silver like some
Turner landscape, or Wagnerian
allegory. And, as if on cue,
with a suddenness that shocks, amazes,
from the hidden lagoons amongst the reeds,
multiple flocks of geese rise calling, flying
towards the river’s mouth, fluttering shadows
receding into dark.
The Arena has become an aviary.
As we walk along the narrow corridor
into the auditorium, the sound
of eight and half thousand young voices
all chattering simultaneously
with wonder overwhelms us like a blast
of tropical heat, like a wall of bird song.
The music starts, the house lights go down.
In unison, as they begin to sing
‘Ode to Joy’, each one of the thousands
of song birds switches on a white, bright beam,
which shimmers and waves,
ECO-WARRIOR
THE BROKEN BRANCH
A CHORUS OF ZITHERS
HOME TIME
IN PRAISE OF THE WORLD WIDE WEB