Hope

 

 

Flat veld stretches an horizon

Shorn of trees

As wind whips sand from dunes

Blasting fynbos.

"Be calm," she says.

 

Wild things move close to the ground

In quick rushes

While above, vultures circling high

Seek those fallen.

"I am here," she says.

 

Blistering sun flaming high above

Pins shadow down

Then clouds, shredded, fight for form

Sucked dry.

"Believe," she says.

 

A farmhouse in the distance

Shimmering white

Holds hope

 

Peter Hollard