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. 

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.