The air lock in our hosepipe won't be heard
for another season;
the spider in our spout, he won't be stirred
for another season.

The Zanu/Zapu dialogue is dead
until what rains?
The Somabula Flats are tinctured red
until what rains?

On caps of wind the migrant swallows soar:
will they return?
Our soldiers guard the Beira Corridor:
will they return?

I found a rusty bayonet in the yard:
lest we forget;
some two-by-four and half a playing card:
lest we forget.

We watch our garden dying flower by flower . . .
perhaps the spring?
the water table falling hour by hour . . .
perhaps the spring?

There's part of a heart on the card I found:
does it portend?
The Rhodies rev their Hondas, southward-bound
does it portend?

Our new-born baby squints her eyes to see
(love, light the fire)
her two dimensional security.
Love, light the fire.