Four Poems

Travelling with Chickens (1)
 
Coming back this time it’s more difficult
not to get lost, as if there is leakage.

Night after night I wake up, heart jumping
and wait for the scops owl calling the time
 
the bush baby’s weeping. Last night I dreamt
I sat under a baobab, my back to its hide
 
as if I was leaning against my friend
the elephant, both of us dozing in the heat of the day
 
with you little hen, pecking at our feet
and Delores and HP and the rest of the chickens
 
scratching away under the nearby yellow mopani.
And for all the world we looked as if this
 
this was where we each belonged, so when in the distance
we heard a fish eagle keening its sorrow
 
it was right you stood still, and looked up, wings braced
...