A crow from the mango tree sounds the coming of day,
Echoes of dogs whose barks mourn have faded with bell-notes of cattle that scavenge our backyards;
I hear brooms walking early to beckon cold dust that crawls like mist.
There's the fading sound of the mine-bus horn
And pursuing shouts and whistles from miners late to the bus stop.
The chaste sun soon enters to find my bed
And streets are filled with pans of buns from yesterday's dough ready for sale.
There is a clatter coming from our bottle-top sitting room
And mother is up early counting coins,
It's yet another day when my sleeping space is littered with crates of tomatoes.
Then a trampoose of boots whose lyrics sits in the prints it leaves
Sings its way from the hedge to the sitting room door;
He is clad in the soil of toil yet his heart bulges and shrinks with a love for us.
26/09/17
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Categories:
trampoose, africa, childhood, growing up,
Form: Free verse