Eating Lilies By The River

By the freshness of dawn,
We would be at the river,
Washing our faces,
Soft like the petals of the red flowers in my aunt's garden.
We would watch in awe,
As the last frog croaked,
And wave happily,
Calling him the owner of water.
We would jump from one hibiscus to another,
Like birds about to head West,
Eating nectar,
Sweet like the yellow drink at The Big Big Shop,
Which we only had at Christmas.

By the caressing heat of noon,
We would be at the river,
Lying under the blue water,
Which was as cool as the porridge served after hours in the field,
And generously drawn from my grandmother's biggest dak.
We would eat lilies by the river,
And gulp down waters,
As clean as a freshly smeared simba,
Awaiting a coming miaha.
We would sit by the bank,
And roast together with our clay little ones,
The source of our infantile pride.

By the luxury of the tired sun,
We would be at the river,
Singing beautiful rhymes,
Which were as easy as locating your mouth while eating in the dark,
And taught by Madam at School One.
We would bubble and chuckle,
As a little old woman ran home from the market,
The basket on her head never falling,
All because she never wanted to be late with supper,
For her little grandson always slept before the last chicken came home.
We would smile at the little boys from the opposite village,
As they climbed tall trees and threw big stones in the water.
We would hear my aunt's melodious voice call,
Then get up and trace the green path back home,
After a day by the river.