Botswana Grace

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The sea spits me out to rouge’d hills,
Azure, cloudless sky covers me,
Ancient crocodile’s jaw holds me gently,
Bakwana lullaby me to sleep.

A girl, eyes round in wonder,
holds a stick and wheel
tied together with bush wire
and a paper parcel’s string.
It comes to rocks in clay with a mind of its own, 
moves West,
only to be blocked again 
until the marbled sentiment gives way
to bring it back home.

The winter solstice draws longingly,
embracing the day with warmth,
slow eyed donkeys graze across its shadow,
careful of nettles and makgoe.

The women flash through sorghum fields
sighting horned sustenance.
In clapped rhythm,
seeded ankle percussion,
the mighty rush in trophied skins
to stalk a tribal kill.
The beast fights – flails – flounders,
the pierce of the trajectory
too quick to save life.
Cocked chests are in a primitive paternal pride
while women tongue holla,
to embrace the victory.

The roosters wake the dawning day,
Wearied souls of our’s revived,
The land of clay and endless time.
Give us all a peace of mind.

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