The smell of light-lit morning –
sun in profile; rays face-on –
with th’refreshful, weightless air
amongst the sky
does catalyse my riv’ring
mem’ry banks, of sensate store,
‘n feed the reaching roots that
in time’s soil lie.
The chill of birthing dawn; the
spacious, night-renewed space
between the earth ‘n sky that
spreads about my spine:
it all ignites the firing
of a neural network – flames
that dance their blazing heat
of once upon a time.
In age-long decades past rises
the gilt Zimbabwe sun,
the gutt’ral summons resonating –
roaring – deep,
while waits the cooling coffee,
sour-milked in s’ramic cup,
held by my hand, under the thatch,
supressing sleep…
william altoft 