By Christina Brazzale
The kitchen fruit bowl chatters like a group of women around a well,
Their plump skins glisten with sweat and muddy dew,
While ringing laughter
Ripens beneath a still spring breeze.
Brightly-clad ropes adorned with the diamonds of an African king,
They deftly fill clay pots with liquid life
Living a fruitful life depends on the richness of the soil,
The sweetness promised by white peach blossoms,
The seeds over which they toil – dusty pollen scattered by bees.
Nature vibrates with yellow light and the smell of hummingbirds,
Nectar pumping heart, pumping rhythm, pumping life
In the circle of an elephant footprint.
Under a living moon they feast, furtively plucking harvest grapes
– straight to the lips –
Forgetting clay plates.
Their palettes are cleansed by a downpour of rain,
A quenching of thirst,
The delicate sweetness of organic perfume,
The succulent warmth of blazing offerings of God.
During harvest season, the world remains fertile,
A womb of germinating life,
Bliss defying reason of the union between mother and mountain.
And when it descends into cold African silence,
– with vapour tinged breath –
Surrounds a coal-stoked encouraged fire with
Something that has the colour of sun-ripened corn