Yesterday

Our journey was weaving the winding high road 

along the edge of existence, 

in the land of the others ancestors
that I claim as home. 

The cold crisp air pushed my face,
bludgeoned my eyes and nose 
who paid in slight pain and tears
for this glance and this memory.

In this the oldest of countries
the green hills are rent by 
rugged golden cliffs, like broken bones
jutting through the rolling green-grass skin.

Out on the plane a lone antelope struggles 
for meaning, the white markings around
it’s arse a small smudge on the 
history of herds, of man, of life.

And on my haunches, thighs tightened in swivel,
a look over my shoulder confirmed the red car still 
visible on the ridge of the road where we had stopped. 
My grandparents lingering near by.

Their old bodies could not follow as
over the barrier and down the bank I trudged,
dodging death bites from phantom berg snakes,
dragged into the land by the undergrowth.

I turned from them, and allowed my fingers
entry into the cold waters of a mountain pool, and
touched something of the nothing after death that flowed these waters, cracking and rippling around rocks, around my fingers

Reviews

[razormuse]

Again you have a unique style of writing. It's edgy & makes you think. I read it twice to make sure I was getting it. very different.

[Emily B]

oh, wow! glad to have found my way to words like these