The wind weaves.
The dog’s bark ricochets in waves that break ‘gainst seagull’s calling.
Alit along the current air did fall, in feath’ry glide, a-whilst my coffee waits, a crow.
In age-long decades past rises the gilt Zimbabwe sun, the gutt’ral summons resonating – roaring – deep.
Under the patchwork canopy that catches falling rain…
The ocean gull approaches.
Riotous rise. Nefer-noon.
Through glass: the tiles, in rain-swept sick.
Now mourned’s the passing peace of night, its flight flown with the scorching licks of star-fire at its torn ‘n frayed heels.
Extra time to sit ‘n write ‘n read.