That was in the days of the old strip road,
before the merger, before the quarry
started looking like my Dad; long before
the fighting. I am thinking of a time,
a time of syringa-berry battles
and the stink of crushed marigolds as we
Fred, Tazwill, my sister Pat – maybe Bob
if it was school holidays – untangled
our childhood. Round and round the yard we rushed
until the landlocked sky shook starlings
out of its blue. Before the puffadder
killed Joe; before Mom stopped making konfyt
from watermelon skins; before Joji
Sibanda (who taught me Sindebele
swear words) was put in jail. It was a time
of bulldogs, and chickens, and vegetables
from the garden: capiscums, horse-radish,
pumpkin . . . and fruit. Our paw-paws were sweeter
than sugar. Even our lemons were sweet.
Remember Granny Trot's mulberry jam?
That was before she stared fading down
the distance of her colonial eyes;
before we moved on full tar to the house
in the village; before my Dad's profile
was blasted away; just before the land-mines
started to appear. Then Joe. Then the way
our St. Joseph's lilies stopped making flowers.
It could have been the granite sand. It could
have been the hot October wind. It could
have been the rattle of choppers. It could
have been a time for lilies to sicken
in the gathering shriek of cicadas.