Original Poetry

"Birthplace"


When the wind moves through our trees, that's when they tell me
to think of Africa.

there's something different—
it's a soul drummed into withered slabs of ex-crop;
footprints of cattle, birds in every aching joint.
you were Wilberforce's song, across this ocean, but even I can't taste
you—perhaps you'll pluck my eyes in
and leave me for your buzzards, the lightheaded
spiral and buzz of insect wings, and famine like pain in the back
of my skull. the dizzying sear of salt-etched soil and bison birthing; I'll never lose sight
of the fragrant brush of long grass, but here in my history I am little more than trees. trees and
damp sky, but I still think on your thunderstorms

and the way your heels would strike the ground like rain, your screaming in the lashing wind

And the pounding of your souls in the dust
to sting my sight of you, the kind to cloud my
lungs and cake my nostrils, aye

A shroud of sun-tossed dust
and your harsh breathing
and Africa
and the way you ran with
your eyes at the mountains



--
Copyright 2011 J Coate