With the ghosts of living things
I’ll be drinking tea –
dis Woensdag…

As the arvo climbs the rungs
of clouds and mountains,
I depart –

past the grasdakhuis and beds
of flowers – pink rose
on wild briars.

Agapanthus lines the stream
running down cobbles,
like the kids…

School is out and it’s sunny –
dis mos lekker weer…
I forgot.

The africanus lily
calls the kitchentaal
to my tongue,

and wonderment of countries
far across the sea…
How many?

Hoeveel dra nou die bloeisels
van kamermusiek
and tea time?

Of grandfather clocks ticking
in silent spaces
nearing noon.

Of a television set –
news of buds outside.
It’s muted.

The smell of flowers takes me
into that café
where we sat –

you, the ghosts of the living,
and us, living shades
of the damned.

Far away the café is
from the gardens I
now ponder:

in geuwelhuis se krake
those buds are planted
and are sprung!

Karnalliewarrelwind waai!
So weer… So weer… So…

Sy vinger in elke pie,
the wind blows me by
those gardens;

trying to indulge in small
of flowers…

I spiral past waves of leaves,
of scenes van spoke
and of figs…

And I muse:

Is the wind really like the
English empire, or
is it just a lonely child?


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