Monday 16 July 2007

protea poet

an old man stands by a grave
reading poetry to his dead sister
the ice on the ground doesn't bother him
nor my glances ....

I stretch my eyes to read his lips .......

tree ferns ripple at the steeple
green ghosts whistle by the cross
marble stone scratches
and protea leaves
lost in a personal loss.
and seedlings remind me
of springtime in roma
and roma reminds me of you.
so I'll plant for tomorrow
in basalt black ridges
elvira my sister for you.


the old man lifts his head
from the leather bound book.
a whip bird breaks the silence.
the old green wooden church
sheds a tear it seeems ....
and I leave.