Little Brown Feet

On quiet days in mid autumn When sun and clouds play ‘peek-a-boo’ Somber thoughts linger in crisp air Of some other time and place where Harmattan winds in December create A hazy fog of dust and sand Draping the sun from dawn to dusk I hear sounds of children’s laughter Singing ‘Ring around the Roses’ Playing ‘Na fo’ and ‘jumping rope’ No one took note the birds were silent No one had seen them fly away No one recognized the warning Soon horror and mayhem would ensue Little brown feet tender, yet fast Pound the earth skipping, jumping Lean and strong; weaving in and out Through serpentine reeds of brown and green Dust clouds rise, burst with each tap Happy voices chanting a local jingle ‘Who bucks it takes it... free rope” On quiet days in mid autumn When leaves of Oaks and Elms Brown, red, yellow, gold and rust Carpet concrete sidewalks Rustle loudly beneath my feet I still hear eerie sounds of wailing Of children’s terrifying screams In some other time and place where Harmattan winds creep south Like an iniquitous invading force Bringing in chill and fog of powdery sand Then sudden sounds of terror assault the ears Trembling in shock powerless to move Little brown feet melt with nowhere to run They huddle behind walls of mud bricks Others dash towards the woods Leaving broken flip flops and tennis shoes Scattered on fields of dust Through thickets, shrubs and razor grass Little brown feet bare running scared Now bruised and bleeding unaware Hades’ orchestra plays its symphony Emitting a cacophony of sounds Mortars falling! Red-tail rockets sailing! RPGs rip and the AKs unrelenting rat-ta-ta-ta…. While Harmattan winds like a steam engine blows Long hard fierce and cold Little brown feet will skip no more A tribute to the Children of Liberia (Liberian Civil War - December 1989-2004)