KALAHARI:

My old desert, garbed in ancient, smoky khaki dust,

Sewn and hemmed in haggard herbs and elephants musth,

Adorned in fluff, fur, hair, maw and soft padding paw,

Plumed in feather, talon, eye, beak and piercing claw,

Caressed by scrub, sand, dust, heat and bloody thorn,

Daubed with ebony night, white searing day & rosy morn,

Hiding secrets of the hunt, the hunted, the stalker, the prey,

Bow-string taut, arrow flies, opening scorched heavy-lidded day,

Tongue-click, leathered-skin, hand-told stories from old bones,

Desert arid, dry eyes watching the ancient place of the no-homes,

Stealthy walking, gently creeping, hiding in the no-man’s-land,

Nothing seen, hidden life, holy hubbub beneath shifting sand,

Screeching music, squeaks, roars, & the hunting, haunting, howls,

The dance & prance, the skip, the run & the quiet ballet prowls,

On whispering night winds, the voices of the ancestors moans,

Bedded beneath the scrubby eons & scorching Kalahari stones,

Slithering serpent, crawling insect & cracked hard earth baked,

Alert, awaiting first rains, to celebrate quenched thirsts slaked,

My Kalahari, no words enough, Kalahari, Kalahari, Kalahari.