Clouds cling – fast.
The dog’s bark ricochets in waves that break ‘gainst seagull’s calling.
Over the water, w’thin the waves of crashing flame, I sit ‘n write.
We must face each fireless night.
The road runs riv’ring currents, coursing crashless swirls of traffic.
In age-long decades past rises the gilt Zimbabwe sun, the gutt’ral summons resonating – roaring – deep.
King Will’yum walks, in wettened-sand.
Hill. Café. Bus.
A centre-piece surrounded.
Trooping past: a generation.
Sun sweeps; pandemic breeze.
Riotous rise. Nefer-noon.
In my left ear; in my right.