The Zambesi
Zambia alone could not give her love
This woman that courts Zimbabwe too
Mellow like a belly dancer
Her soft form moving 'round her summer pole
Do not play with her heart
Her passion is like a cataract raging white
With fury ... beautiful the way she moves
During the rains
And the nights when Zimbabwe's brothel lights
Lit the fluid hair that veil her face
And when the drums
Of distant hoofs from Zambia thunders aloud
I have seen her dancing
Alone in the aurora of the moon
Her black thighs shivering to release
Her fertility to a sensitive land.
I have kissed her lips where honey drips
And sipped her peace
Balming memories of mangling whips
I love this woman, this healer
This source of life and time.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2009
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