After leaving Mr Muirhead
Alleys. Streets. Wolves. Sheep.
The shores-of-Johannesburg do not smell like anything-like-Malibu.
It’s primitive living-for-sale.
Columbia
To the lighthouse soul.
To Sappho, Antigone’s divine-ceremony.
Go fishing in rifts.
It’s losing its darkness
Something is damaged –
There is a richness in dust – mother-tongue.
Post-apartheid things. Compasses.
The hours
You are a typhoon –
Waves in the folds of daylight.
Childhood stars are past.
Shade in my bedroom
The end of violence –
The world’s feast is not my home.
The heart of worship.
Inside a public library
I am the June guest –
Greedy for ritual. Sonnets.
Winter possession.
Success for personal growth
Orlando’s river –
Habits of tsunamis past.
What remains is life.
Books
I read as a child –
In books, there are valleys. Hills.
Worlds were within reach.
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