Transvaal

Our winter is short and savagely

cold -

eating into my bones 

exposing me to the elements -

like a vulture

picking off the last sinew 

from 

bones bleached white

under the Kruger sun.

Summers are hot and sweaty.

We wear 'beach tongs' on this piece

of parched land -

a thousand miles from the

beach sands.

But 

the evenings have won my heart

and made me part -

of this land of my ancestors.

The sun sets fast behind the

blackening

bush horizon -

and we settle down in the

orange semi-light

to discuss the day.

A restfulness, unique to Africa

settles over us,

Birds russel the branches,

settling down in the warm

fast approaching 

night.

Crickets rear their heads

singing to the setting sun

competing with the 

ever present

Christmas beetle.

The dog, stretches and yawns -

wakening refreshed after the hot day

ready to add his voice to those of

the night.

And I, I mediate on what has been.

I meditate on things not seen

and people never met.

I miss the Cape, and its cool stretches

but

this is my home now -

Transvaal, bushveld land.