DIE STOMP WAT OORBLY
(na Jesaja 6;14) In die tyd sal die akkerboom teen sy wil val: vermoeid en laag le soos die laaste vuur geloop het deur die bos. Hy sal met die val die langsteelbyl en strooisaagsels onthou, vaag die bries deur sy kruin. Van nou af rammel wolke ver bo hom: beeste jaag oor hom en kleinvee vertrap die soet molm en muf van die gras. In die tyd sal die stomp met sy voete diep in die koue grond voel hoe 'n geitjie op sy platkant uit die skaduwee skuif. In die tyd sal hy 'n loot voel spruit, die heiliggroen blare met sy sap betas en sien dat die loot soos 'n Prins lenig beur na die son. 
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WRITING A POEM
My Love, you want to know if containers of primulas for my winter pots will do or else a bunch of roses wrapped in cellophane and bows. Primula sounds so coy. Those who write trickery words, the enslavers of sweet nothings tied in lilac ribbons and tilting thoughts. Roses? No, only the winter rose alone fluttered and torn but white and single with the brave heart of a warrior, traced against the killing fields of sky. My Love, come to me. Place the rose on my breast and translate the language of poetry: I am not blameless of sin or blood. You will find the scars of many battles in my eyes. The soldiers of my dreams are torch bearers on the horizon. What awaits, what awaits? Come my Love, leave my hat and gloves on the staircase for the moon is decoding with the rhythm of a drum my way to invasion. The luring voices of other fields slip from me as a word from an ear. I hear only the deep sound of a cannon debarring walls and iron gates. Hold me, my Eternal One. The high conquering sigh of love! And then only will my mouth be soft like an untreaded hill. And I know the purpose of the rose. | ||||