Category: Poetry

In the dread of the night

a bird sings.

From the world beyond sight

something springs.

And ribbons of satin

flash colour and pattern –

I reach out, clutch inwards

and cling.

But this flight of the Spirit

won’t be held

in hands grasped too tight

for its spell.

Hope’s quicksilver flicker

will shimmer and shiver,

while the song that it sings

won’t be quelled.

So I listen so close

in the dark

while the mopoke calls back

to the lark.

Old sadness and sorrow

soon lifts on the morrow

and sweet birdsong

will herald its path.

©     Sharonne Price March 2018

The company of trees

These are the ones who endure,
who hold their sway
through the storm and the still.

These are the ones who grow
deep down in the stillness of things.
Ancient burials.

These are the ones who cradle safe
both raven and sparrow young
on slender ledge and landing.

This short green season of bounty
has grown from recent cold.
Exposed, retracted, reserved.

Now the leaves flutter
like prayer flags
released to summer breezes.

So in their company strengthened
I breathe in their living breath
Gentle gifts of sustenance.

And so may we grow strong together,
Quivering, but living old
One season at a time.

Colorado, May 2007

Drought breaker

There is a whisper about.
Subversive, unfastened.

In the darkening, long shadows blur.
The magpie spreads her dusty wings
and chortling softy,
abandons her summer sentry post
to wait.

Soft leaves turned brown before their time,
Crinkled now and drooping sad,
Sense the change and flutter faintly,
Heads turned gasping t’ward a murmur
of hope.

The world’s gone quiet.
Muted, mysterious, grey to black.
The wrens twitter their families home.
They fluff and settle, burst expectant,
then still.

The earth turns her face to the broody sky.
A drop or two, then gentle release.
The soft cloudy veil unfolds
for the consummating kiss.
Rain.

Sweet rain.

© Sharonne Price

Dust

There is a road to Mavele
in South Africa.
We fill the taxi
and cram in cheek by jowl
like the fruit in the bags we carry.
We watch each other,
smell each other’s sweat
and the dust comes in.

There is a road to Mavele,
just out of Tzaneen.
The driver brakes and turns,
slips and slides,
and we hold on
through the dips of soft potholes
and the dust comes in.

Oh Mavele
where young girls fight danger,
hunger, TB, HIV, and fear itself.
Grip hard
for life’s sake !
And the dust comes in.

Oh Mavele
your Tsonga and Sotho songs
are quieted.
And the kids hang about
’cause the teacher’s on strike.
Water is carried like gold
and the dust comes in.

They are making a new road
just beside Mavele.
The trucks bring gravel and tar.
They rumble all day.
It may go past Mavele.
New South Africa?
The dust comes in.

There is a child in Mavele,
who fashions a rolling toy
from old wire and odd wheels.
He smiles and watches,
dreams and schemes.
He is the new South Africa.
He will not bypass Mavele
where the dust comes in.

© Sharonne Price June 07