by John Carse
This season is breeding itself
becoming full
moving lugubriously
touching all who dare to linger
in its path
passing itself from one host to the next
leaving its ghosts
lying breathless in the streets
and among the unwashed sheets
of desperate decay
carelessly clumsily
moving through a world
without borders
without defense
This season of grieving
scatters bones
that no sangoma can read
it feeds on itself
in its wake it leaves
our stillborn tomorrows
the rotting smell of its breath
and all that is left
is to dig a million graves