The fog has not yet lifted from the enclave. The candyfloss glow of the sun suspended above the horizon of the valley in the Jock of the Bushveld Concervancy [sic] where I have made my new home reflects on the ghostly blue of the dam in front of my house. One of the nesting pair of fish eagles does a low flyby. The distinctive call of the fish eagle is synonymous to me with Africa, pulling on my heartstrings as no music can. A primordial longing fills my very soul. Banished to purgatory for the best part of my life, this paradise is my just reward in my golden years.
the fish eagle’s call
amplified by dam water—
its catch is silent
An African Jacana teeters with its long toes on the emerald green leave of the pink water lily flower. It pecks delicately at something at the edge of the flower, before taking flight; long legs dangling behind it like superfluous appendages—its sharp, ringing tone cleaving the morning silence.
I am not alone: a blouapie (marmoset) with his distinctive cobalt blue and crimson genitals surveys my progress along the path to the jetty. Damp, golden leaves carpet the pathway, the pungent smell assailing my olfactory receptors, alerting me to the many unknown vegetation growing in abandon on the embankment—names of which I need to learn and applications I need to discover. Something scurries among the roots of the macadamia tree and plops into the water.
spring stirs in loins,
driving out the long winter
of dormant passions
Copyright © Suzette Richards 2018