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Written by Neema Ngwatilo
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Monday, 29 September 2008 |
Neema Ngwatilo's second poem in Imagine Culture.
I return to the scene of the teacups, hedgehog & Jacaranda flowers.
The hillside is desolate.
Only in the thickness of the bark of now very very old trees is life
quick-paced, too busy to stop and worry. Change. In the city
Jacaranda trees bloom; here life manifests in pods 10yrs farther above my head.
I am still small.
The cypress tree is an old man leaning on his good side. The wind
is blowing and I see him lean further, so precariously as if he might break if
the needles, altogether long, thick and shabby like a drunkard Rasta's locks,
lean too close to the ground.
His creaking bones are audible beneath the traffic noise. I hear them because
I am here and silent. The grass is dead and the last generation is
gathered in a heap
at the foot of the hill. No one has buried it or offered last rites,
else it would have begun to rot
and become part of the healing. The soil has slid
downhill
It underscores the evidence that soil has limited and receding immunity also.
See with remembering, and new amens on your lips
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Neema Ngwatilo |
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Neema Mawiyoo is a poet and a member of Concerned Kenyan Writers. She blogs at ngwatilo.com.
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Last Updated ( Monday, 29 September 2008 )
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