Two Poems by Dennis Webster

Now I wash my Underwear by Hand

When you first came to
my home I still called you by half your name.
Your father’s half.
You were as lovely as graphite on paper or
the bend of a heron, or of
an egret.
And, egret, this home has so many new places.
and then
they throw up your hair, which is still
here. Sacred and profane,
I am turned to a high priest, all
ritual and ceremony.
And look! You have turned me, hands still
warm amongst soapy dishes, to
the thievery of poetry.
I am giving you back. I give you back.
You will find me, the way the bus
finds me waiting.

Morning Run in a Pandemic

I was born dying.
The umbilical chord wrapped twice
about my neck.
My face the colour of a plum.
On a morning run in the pandemic
my lungs heave again, like
those first, desperate minutes.

A tall and a short friend turn the corner.
Here, a single file family, there
a family abreast.
Strange they interest me more
now they are masked. As if
I knew all of their stories before this.

Tagged with:
Posted in Poetry

Botsotso is pleased to announce that it is now hosting administration of this trust.

The function of the trust is to negotiate terms of Permission and Rights under which Alan Paton’s work may be published, translated and/or used in any other manner, such as adaptation.

The literary managers are Warren Jeremy Rourke and Kharys Ateh Laue who are contactable at

All Permissions and Rights accrue directly to the Trust.

For further information please check under the menu item.