Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

John Eppel

Winter in Matabeleland, 1987

Winter in Matabeleland, 1987

Winter in Matabeleland, 1987

The air lock in our hosepipe won\'t be heard
for another season;
the spider in our spout, he won\'t be stirred
for another season.

The Zanu/Zapu dialogue is dead
until what rains?
The Somabula Flats are tinctured red
until what rains?

On caps of wind the migrant swallows soar:
will they return?
Our soldiers guard the Beira Corridor:
will they return?

I found a rusty bayonet in the yard:
lest we forget;
some two-by-four and half a playing card:
lest we forget.

We watch our garden dying flower by flower . . .
perhaps the spring?
the water table falling hour by hour . . .
perhaps the spring?

There\'s part of a heart on the card I found:
does it portend?
The Rhodies rev their Hondas, southward-bound
does it portend?

Our new-born baby squints her eyes to see
(love, light the fire)
her two dimensional security.
Love, light the fire.
Close

Winter in Matabeleland, 1987

The air lock in our hosepipe won\'t be heard
for another season;
the spider in our spout, he won\'t be stirred
for another season.

The Zanu/Zapu dialogue is dead
until what rains?
The Somabula Flats are tinctured red
until what rains?

On caps of wind the migrant swallows soar:
will they return?
Our soldiers guard the Beira Corridor:
will they return?

I found a rusty bayonet in the yard:
lest we forget;
some two-by-four and half a playing card:
lest we forget.

We watch our garden dying flower by flower . . .
perhaps the spring?
the water table falling hour by hour . . .
perhaps the spring?

There\'s part of a heart on the card I found:
does it portend?
The Rhodies rev their Hondas, southward-bound
does it portend?

Our new-born baby squints her eyes to see
(love, light the fire)
her two dimensional security.
Love, light the fire.

Winter in Matabeleland, 1987

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