The Beating Drum

Market walls fence in the sky
Spilling light and life into breathing lung
Poised so lightly upon the mountain top,
Nearing the ancient mountain’s edge,
Its crags, the lines in the face of a watchful mother
Alive with the knowledge that all of this land
Once locked eyes with her,
Met the calm, unwavering stare
And knew that they looked into the eyes
Of Creation

Boerewors spits on a distant braai,
Flames drenched in fat and smoking wood
Matched with the warmth of the African sun,
Lulls me into peaceful thought
And anticipation of the family dinner tonight,
The loud, familiar voices like an old song
So long absent, silenced by circumstance

A line-up of innocent instruments wonders silently
At me, sitting in a simple wooden seat
My eyes wander to a wondering figure
His skin, dark like our mountain,
The whites of his eyes glinting
Like the gold piece in his ear
Big feet and long limb grow still as he lowers a large head
Reaches out a wide hand, roughened like the leather
Of the drum, softened by an innate caress

Bang! The bone hits true, hits base
The note reverberating through the solid earth
It heats the soles of my feet
Warming souls, connecting both our hearts
Until the slow steady beat
Becomes the rhythm of my blood

The market breathes
Hands beat another drum
Strengthening the heart-song
Fingers pick a crudely made guitar

A girl, like an African ballerina, approaches
Entranced by this music made by three strangers
Her toes are slightly pointed as she begins to
Bounce and
Spin. The music enters her feet
As it had mine, it takes them as its own,
Taking lead in the dance of two lovers
And stealing my tears in turn
Her head turns and sweeps with eyelids closed
Sending light scattering, a rainbow halo
By plastic beads in her braided black curls

A smile broke upon both her face and mine
Laughter erupts from a place I’d long forgotten
The mountain and I set a loving gaze upon an
Exhibition of life
Lived by the way of the mountain
And the sky.