BUSHVELD BLISS©
POETRY AND PHOTOGRAPHY by Caroline Street.
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BUSHVELD BLISS©
A poem by Caroline Street Traversing the winding, gravelly road, Wherever I gaze, just grey Acacia thorn and stick trees Stunted from fires and drought, With intermittent splashes of green. Despite the hardship of the land, The flora thrives in the warm, grainy sand. The quirky hornbill arches his spotted head, Eyes scanning the ground for a treat; Bulbuls chitta-chatta loudly in the trees Searching eagerly for bugs and berries. An eagle soaring high is difficult to identify With the sun glinting in my eyes. Spoor of gazelle, giraffe, zebra, and civet Are distinct upon the sand, Each print shows its brand. Perfect indentations of hooves and pads Indicate the animals direction across the land. At noon, time stands still, Nothing stirs the intersecting branches Scorching under the sun. I take my chances and go for a stroll And notice how the drought has taken its toll. Just a slightly discernible breeze sways The long, bleached grass, Adding an aura of softness To the arid landscape in my path. My thoughts are filled with the elusive leopard That has been spotted around. Healthy trepidation fills my senses; I am on the lookout! My subconscious fears That should the leopard appear, I might not welcome sunset. This princely cat is decisive and swift And is not a predator I want to attract. Large spider webs cover a Milkberry tree, The spiders are unseen by me, But no doubt they have espied me And moved into the centre of the tree. Traces of fur and bone are strewn on the ground. I surmise a recent kill or altercation Took place during the night When sight for cats is bright. The victor now, no doubt licking his paws, The victim, it appears, is no more. Prodigious sandy hills created By assiduous ant colonies; The abstract artists of the bushveld; And the anteater's dream. I am aware that the gaping holes Could be the habitat of a snake And poking around could result In a deadly mistake. At day's end, the sun slowly Descends into the horizon, The bushveld now swathed in gold; A touch of coolness ascends And the eagle soars no more. Will the quietude of the night Be interrupted by the lion's roar? In the boma, the fire is lit and just Beyond that in the darkness, we sit. The clarity of the stars takes my breath away, Yet torches are still essential to light the way. No wildlife will approach tonight, Deterred by the flame of the firelight, But will sniff the tantalising aroma of the braaivleis. Dawn will reveal animal spoor, The telltale search for left-over food. At daybreak, the silhouettes of trees and cacti Creates intricate patterns against the violet-blue sky. A solitary beetle is hard at work Rolling dung to an underground hide. As I huddle over my coffee A thought comes to mind, It's just God, His angels and I Who witness this golden silence of the sky; The creation of a new day In this harsh inspirational bushveld.❤ |
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The poem and images are typical of the area where I grew up - just further north. The Bushveld, (African savannah), is my favorite place in the world. It is an arid area, the sun is merciless, drought and fire destroy the fauna and flora, and it is the survival of the fittest, however just a little rain can turn the Bushveld green in no time at all. Caroline Street.