Sunday, January 17, 2016


Your Dutch came out of the kitchen so much sweeter
Rolled in purrs and dusted in crisp consonants
With French flourishes.

It leaves honey on your tongue.
I can taste it.

Your fathers' names still line the streets
Cast in brass beneath a stone face that looks so much like you

And still your blood runs rooibos
And still you give "now" its magic names
And still you thrill to this beast-tramped veldt
Like the fathers of their fathers
Who first burned under this proud sun
And made it yours.

1 comment:

Terrence O'Neil said...

We peer
from the cave they will call Rising Star far from now
at cold clouds rolling across an angry sea.
The ice is there, and we are very close to gone
Almost extinguished, like the sun,
but too proud to die, to be forgotten.
No ice will chase us away
or destroy us.
The sun WILL come again