The hot, dry experience of Berseba, Namibia, where the bones of our planet stand out, magnificently exposed.

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Berseba

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Bare bones of landscape on planetary scale.

Terrestrial muscles, stretching,

Fibrous within dry topography.

Gullies; dark, deep, damp,

Lines scared across the geography.

Horizon; a silenced volcano,

Sky; clear, high, where flaming peak once roared

black ash, still darkening the soil.

Warm wind drives sand grains,

Grinding every surface, in miniature and immensity.

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Life grips at the edges,

An anvil shouldering wind and sun,

Clinging, clinging lichen-like on.

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Windhoek, 2022

Although I’m back in Kampala, far from the beach and the feeling of holiday that filled the end of the year, the photos and the memories of weeks in Kilifi keep me company. The memory of daily ocean swims, continues to warm and inspire.

Kilifi Morning

i

Waking before full light, strands of night in the air,

Heat rising from the mattress ejects me from bed,

Sliding open the doors, I sense high-tide.

ii

Damp-from-evening-swim swim-suit, kikoy, sandals,

Leave Neem tree shade, for quiet morning light.

Smells of cardamom, fresh-lit fires, a hint of heat to come.

iii

Coral beach passageway still holds cool, soil gives way to sand,

Reflected dawn-light blocks my view until stepping out, onto the beach.

Spring tide has brought the foamy waves almost to the steps.

iv

Indian ocean; soft as silk, powder blue, rolling smoothly,

Sand sun-bleached, sparkling golden sunrise light,

Sky-sand-ocean, light-filled awe.

…

January 2021

Bofa Beach, Kilifi, Kenya

This weeks poem, a elebration of a new year begining in beautiful Kilifi, Kenya. Welcoming the sunrise of a new year over the Indin Ocean.

Bofa Beach

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Bubbling of water in your ears,

Sting of saltwater in your eyes.

Squinting against sun-light,

Multiplied in reflection.

Taste of salt in your mouth.

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Prickle of midday sun on sun-starved shoulders.

Trickle of sweat down your back,

Skin moist and soft with humidity,

Tight from drying with salt.

Glowing, growing daily darker.

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Barefoot footprints on virgin beach, 

Light marks in hard sand,

Deep holes in wet,

Watching patterns wash away,

Calf muscles straining with beach walking,

Limbs aching with too much swimming,

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Body weightless in the waves. 

Face turned towards the water,

Towards the wind.

Soul aching for salt water,

Sweat, tears, the sea.

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Tulia, Bofa, Kilifi. 2021

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A third poem from my recent visit to Namibia, a few luxurious days at a lodge, with wildlife, wonderful food, and the otherworldly luxury of green in the desert landscape.

Lodge morning

Animals that stayed up late browsing, 

nowhere to be seen in the golden morning, 

A single bushbuck, pondering the nights event,

Abandoned, his darkness reflects in the silver waterhole,

Slowly withdraws into the shrubby bush.

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But the weaver birds, in noise and motion, busy, busy

Weaving away amongst the tiny, water conserving leaves, 

the narrow, close branches, the abundant twigs.

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The lawn is a green shock in the red-grey vastness, 

A tiny pool – an unspeakable luxury 

You can float, and admire the endless depth of blue above

With only swallows flashing by.

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Mariental, 2020

This week’s poem, inspired by my recent visit to Windhoek and Namibia. A place that was full of surprises to me.

First impressions

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Klein Windhoek, 

Unlike familiar chaotic capitals,

Or well-trampled historic cities.

Not sure what I expected, but this…

With windblown seedpods and orderly aloe gardens,

Wilderness just outside the neat back door.

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View across the city at dusk

Other harsh, hot hills spring to mind,

Stylish, timeless homesteads

Of California in summer.

Homes proudly displayed,

With fences and hedges but few excluding walls.

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Histories and structures surprising

As the shape of cactus plants.

In this geographic outpost,

Unexpected neighbours, peacefully side by side,

A reminder that no two places are the same.

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Windhoek, 2020

This week’s poem inspired by a forest walk, to the stunning Zoka Forest in Adjumani District of Northern Uganda. Organised by Friends of Zoka, tireless defenders of one of the last stretches of original forest.

Zoka Forest

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Walking in original, indigenous forest,

Leaving, in a step, the sharp heat and light,

Gazing up, up, into multi-greened, layered canopy,

Flashes of light and moisture, voices of birds.

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Breathing the cool, feeling the shelter,

Whispers of life in leaves, xylem in stems,

Vines, looping, muscularly between branches,

Rustling, dripping, moss, fungi, lichen, 

Saplings and giants, tripping over buttress roots.

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Passing narrow paths fading into green,

Our voices, hushed, talk of snakes,

Solitude in darkness, cycles of nutrients, top predators.

With muddy shoes, powdery bark on hands and elbows,

We can hardly bear to leave.

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Driving home we pass planted pine forests,

Sturdy trees; useful, uniform,

Important in so many ways.

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But to the senses!

Grape-flavored drink

After wine.

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Adjumani, 2020

Against the yellow base,

Ashy brown peaks, lined and rugged,

Trees and shrubs, shades of brown, grey, green,

Form lines, patches, swirls –

Crowding, spreading, organizing according to the lie of the land,

The flow of the wind, the gathering of sediments,

Shapes of the landscape.

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I’m searching for clues; how do people live here?

Human habitation appears out of place,

Toys in a giant’s sandpit,

Insignificance against colossal nature,

And in all the wrong colours.

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Verdant green clings to a golf course near a town,

Fraying at the edges.

Low buildings blink beady eyes at the sun.

The watchful sun, just overhead

In the blue, blue sky.

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Colours shift with the movement of the sun,

Dawn and dusk are landscaper artists.

Shade and shadow add detail.

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Bands of bare rock, outcrops, sand with tufts of grey,

On and on. 

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Temperature shifts, beating sun, sandblasting wind, 

These are the powers, the forces;

Water only trails long delicate fingers

In the low places of the landscape.

Nothing worn soft and smooth, 

Everything blasted, harsh and sharp.

No glimmer of moisture, but the glitter of fresh exposed rock.

Roots forcing their way through crevices,

Seeking hidden sources, survival forces.  

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Peaks become gradually more scattered,

Lonely against the flat dryness, 

Eventually the horizon becomes a dark line,

Mountains, perhaps. Maybe once there was water here, 

Where a giant dug warm toes in moist sand,

and dumped piles of rocks as she hurried home. 

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Driving from Windhoek

October 2020

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An almost annual birthday poem, something I started some years ago, but haven’t always been able to deliver. This year, on the day…

Fifty-Four

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Choices made, events thrust upon me,

Life has been kind and cruel,

I made some great decisions, 

.. for an uninformed fool.

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Met people – was cold, was kind,

Took some along, left others behind.

Each left their mark; scars, inspiration,

Your name is there, in the final citation.

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Soared like a bird

Blundered and stumbled

Learned and grew,

Forgot and fumbled.

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All adds up to a life

With its share of disasters,

Adventures offered –

Some failed, some mastered.

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Fifty-four – is here, uninvited,

Paths cleared, overgrown, I’m calmly excited,

Each last day is the first, frightening and gorgeous,

Beyond each horizon, life stretches before us.

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Windhoek

October 2020

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To Hanne, Steen, my neighbors dear,     

I can’t believe you’re leaving here,          

Swaning off to sunny shores,                      

And Steen’s G ‘n Ts, and their effects     

will not be felt on Malcolm X,                    

No more on Malcolm X.                                

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We’ve sat in traffic jams and laughed,    

We’ve tried our hand at basket-craft –   

I will not mention whose was worst…

We’ve talked of family, love and life

Solved audits, dealt with office strife,

And lived on Malcolm X.

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Of dogs and cats, I dare not say,

For blue-eyed Tanne left one day

And never did return.

But I’ll still hear your old dogs bark,

Our gardens like adjacent parks,

Next-door on Malcolm X.

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Through lockdown days our closeness grew        

As members of the lockdown crew,                        

The walking, talking gang.                                           

We climbed the hills, admired the view

In little groups, or two and two,

Ending on Malcolm X.

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While Prunes has been a favorite haunt

The Belgian has the best croissants,

And lockdown weekends took us there.

With Steen to help solve daily trials –

He aided shopping, drove for miles

Afar from Malcolm X.

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At our age we’ve lived many lives,

Our tales could fill UMs archives

With countries, trips and jobs.

Our times have been so many things                      

But these months flew on parrot wings…                              

Remember Malcolm X.

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August, 2020

Malcolm X Avenue, Kololo, Kampala