margaret clough

MUIZENBERG SUMMER

 

Clouds stained a dirty grey

oppress the looming mountain,
curl round the rocks,
and rumble empty threats of rain.
In the air, a faint scent
of damp ground and,
 a metal taste of lightning.
Leaves shake a little,
cling a bit more tightly to the stem,
but grass, pale and wilting,  
bends down in the wind
to touch the white, dry sand.

 

NEW YEAR IN THE EASTERN CAPE

At dawn −

an urgent bugle call

notes like trumpet blasts run

up the scale and down again.

It’s some bird – a shrike or hornbill

making leaves shake in the ngwenya tree

A coucal in the hedge

pours liquid music from its beak.   

In the distance a car drones −

early on the narrow country road.

I hear the dogs bark, look out,

 see them chasing

a slithering leguaan into

the disused swimming pool.

Bees bundled in the eaves

resume their swarming.

I can smell coffee brewing, bacon frying.

Everything is up and stirring

pretending to be new

.