Poetry

This morning there are sparrows, a coucal and weavers
that gathers on the few maize cobs near to the fig trees
and a plover acts as if its wing is broken,
tries to attract the cat away from its nest
 
and the ginger Persian cat sneaks nearer,
treads carefully between each blade of grass and stick,
tries to catch the bird with the apparent broken wing
and I see that some of the grapes are already ripening.
 
Every year it’s like this when the summer comes
with fruit seamed onto the branches
and flower after flower which astounds me
with their beauty and colour
 
while the sun hangs high and white
in the cobalt-blue sky
and the days linger
as if they can last eternally.