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Turtle-dove

I am jealous of that turtle-dove,
Who flits from tree to dirt to sky
On wings stretched at but a thought,
For it is free and I am not.

I crave the freedom to leap
From the cliff of doubt to dreams below.
My roots,
Stretched by wanderlust,
Pull taut against barren, unmoving soil.

But is that dove truly free?
Free never to dream, hope nor love?
Let my anchored feet hold me down
And my dreams turn back to the ground,
For here I am free and it is not.

Dreaming Stars

As you drift across the night
dreaming
I lay alongside
and stare after you.

Constellations flicker
in your covered gaze.
I long to share in
your solitary reverie:
a lone glimpse
into your sleep-shown heavens.

Am I one of the stars
of which you dream?

Should it worry me?

Should it worry me?
That I can detach from crowds
and watch from a distance
while others are
laughing, talking?
I hide behind my pencil
and bent notebook.
Am I a coward
to secret myself in these pages?

Waiting, on a Winter's day

I lay expectant on that couch
the blue one
with its back to the window
while my father's grandfather clock
my inheritance
ticked resolutely on.

Who was I waiting for?
I can't recall.
I only remember:
how bright the day was
how blue the sky
the dogs sprawled catatonic
absorbing dregs of heat
from the winter sun
while I lay on that blue couch
as my inheritance
ticked resolutely on.

Waiting Room

I know this chair.
It's simple, no frills.
Completely ordinary really.
Nothing special.
Not very comfortable either.
I know this chair.
I have,
after all,
been waiting in it
for at least an hour.

part of me

When i am still:
the entire world spins on without me.
But when i move:
i pull everyone along with me.

i am the burning passion of youth,
unquenched by experience.
i am dreams, put in motion,
in whose wake thousands eddy off
and spin their own.
i am the source and driver of change.
i am the best parts of Me,
the only ones I want You to see.

Lights on the Night-road

The darkness rolls on.
I sit here in silent motion,
watching oases of light
slide past my window.

I am not alone of this road.
Pairs of ruby-embers burn brightly ahead.
A wall of white-diamonds
flows steadily on my right.
Where are they going,
these people of the Night-road?

I am one of them,
yet separate.
We roll onwards
with the sunrise at my back.

Mossies

You wouldn't know they were there.
Just a flick of a wing
or a hop to the side.
Their shadows in the setting sun could
just as well
be the shade of a tuft of grass
or a small rock

They move. As one.
A rolling wave of wingbeats
on the parched ground.
A trill from the sergeant bird,
the disordered ranks
vault into the air.

Their cloud drifts away.
An avian shoal
silhouetted
against the dry tawny grass.





*Mossies: Afrikaans name for Cape Sparrows

Sunflowers

Love poems are easy to write:
Full of simpering words and weak clichés.
If I had to,
I would write you thousands,
Maybe in their sum
They would mean something
But no.
I will never sink that low.
Instead:
I bought you sunflowers.