Black
on white
When Anne and I
both born there
say ‘South Africa’,
the clipped off vowels
and crippled consonants
scuttle over
corrugated iron roofs,
barbed wire
and tamped down drought-hard paths
in barren locations,
black on white
guilty, fearful
in the glare.
When Margaret
who's never been there
says ‘Africa - ah – Africa’,
the continent stretches sensuously,
muscles ripple beneath its tawny skin.
Big-breasted women rest
in purple shade
and sing.
Then Africa shakes out its mane
of highvelt grass
and great striped beasts
lift up their heads
to sniff the rain.
(Published in Grim Works –2000)
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