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The Old Man taps his
snuff bottle gently
Then peers into a
distance
As if in a reverie:
A bad mannered young
man
Wagged his fingers on
his face
He winced, and hoped
That lightning never
struck him
Another tail of a
goat blew dust
Into his eyes with
his big motokaa
And now, so many
miles from the market,
He had forgotten to
buy his tobacco
His nose, like pepper
on wound, irritated
When his feet was
light,
He could walk from
Nasal to Nauyapong’
Swift like an
antelope
When he was this size
(so young actually)
Donkeys carried posho and never stirred dust
Then, if somebody’s
bad whispered
Was caught in his
ears
He could tear him
into sixteen pieces
How times change!
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6 comments:
I hear the echoes now that I am here, though I am far away, and I will continue to visit.
Oh, I relate to the tired old man........I love the mood of this poem, the place names, the dust and donkeys.........so cool.
I like to think that it's my turn to watch and advise. smiles...
Thanks for your maiden pilgrimage to the hills, Booguloo. Yes, you are welcome to make your observations what with lots of insights you have accumulated.
Thanks Karen for making a pilgrimage to these scared hills. Yes, the hills have a way of reconnecting us.
Yes, me too, Koko.
{Putting a smiling face}
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Echoes of the Hills is all about you. I would love to hear your echo...