The swinging dwalas of their bosom's bulk
(exfoliation checked by camphor cream),
their wood-and-water-bearing shoulders, hulk
after hulk, smelling of woodsmoke and bream;
these basket-sellers whose collective rumps
extend the Matopos koppies beyond
infinity, have luring eyes, like lumps
of felspar glinting in a shallow pond.
Out of their cheeses from Holland and France
and England and Sweden, the tourists come:
they love the drumbeat and they love the dance,
to wiggle the tit and wiggle the bum.
They purchase baskets with lids and handles,
lucky-bean bracelets and old tyre sandals.
Wim likes the carvings, the wonky giraffe,
and he likes the smell of Maleme bream;
he likes it best when the basket-sellers laugh
(with a faint suggestion of camphor cream).
For when they laugh their geology jumps,
re-birthing valleys and mountain ranges;
while the tourists pant like bicyle pumps,
in awe at the monumental changes
takeing place in front of their pale-lashed eyes
tormented by dust and mopani flies.