MEDITATION

Pigeons have come to nest again. Untidily,
as they usually do. Peacefully here
on the stoep, in the latticework of a vine,
amongst leaves making themselves at home. Briefly.

They sleep now in pairs, as they should. Serenely.
Listen to the whole neighbourhood considering their fate,
our modest neighbours who can sleep safely tonight;
perhaps for the whole season, only just protected,

lightly held in half a calabash of sticks and grass.
(Who still remembers the four who were here last year?)

Here they sleep now, the soft blue-feathered ones,
able to drink all night from the wholesome Milky Way
in motionless dreams of their progeny unscathed,
whilst the Southern Cross unwaveringly plummets.

OORDENKING

OORDENKING

Die duiwe het weer nes kom maak. Slordig,
soos hul manier maar is. Vredeliewend hier
op die stoep, in vlegwerk van ‘n druiwerank
tussen blare hul tuis kom maak. Kortstondig.

Hulle slaap nou in pare, soos dit hoort. Rustig.
Luister hoe die ganse buurt oor hul lot nadink,
ons beskeie naastes wat vannag veilig kan slaap;
dalk nog die hele seisoen, net-net beskut en lig

opgevang in ‘n halwe kalbas van stokkies en gras.
(Wie onthou nog die vier wat laas jaar hier was?)

Hier slaap hulle nou, die sagte blou geveerdes
wat naglank van die heilsame Melkweg kan drink
en roerloos droom van ‘n nageslag ongedeerdes,
terwyl die Suiderkruis onverbiddelik sink.