by Phelelani Makhanya
After such a long time
One finally craves for the outside
To see the eyes of a dog whose bark
Has torn the fabric of many nights
To see the colour of the ice-cream van
Whose wailing music-box like melody
Has always invited kids to the sun
To see that church bell whose sound
Has always clothed my Sundays
To touch its metal
And smell its rust.
The Little Yellow House
There is a little yellow house
At the corner of the street
Where the Jacaranda has painted
The paving purple,
Every day the house appears
With a new face
It looks untouched by the frantic rain
That fell this morning,
Untouched by the muddy feet
Of nightmares that cling on walls
Like lizards at night.
I wonder what the little house is made of
Maybe those curtains are made of concrete
Maybe those doors are not doors
But deceiving paintings on solid walls,
That yard must be a minefield.
The only voice there is a sound
Of unattended falling mulberries
Hitting the ground
Like lazy dew drops falling from a tree.