August. A winter-light,
The first swallows, old friends,
Swoop a greeting over this
Mama Alice takes my pale hand
In her careful brown one, and
Here - the ramshuckle hen-house.
There - the piecemeal cattle-shed.
Past the patch where the
Still-dead mealie stalks
Lurch in drunken ranks.
Round the rondavel, where the ancestors live;
Through the flat houses Where the occasional grandchildren
Come, and stay, and go.
The wary dogs wag their tails
And the geese, the BLOODY GEESE,
Honk in utter disbelief.
But Mama holds me in her great black embrace,
Sweeps a hand to the horizon and says:
Wherever you are, Anywhere in the world,
THIS is your home.