Clouds billow around the mountain tops
Fine, gossamer as smoke
As if the heights they reach are not
Rock formations or fragments of giant
Earth moulding substance,
But a pot, boiling over on the stove,
My grandmothers soup on the table.
Sometimes i am lonely with the fear
Of losing everything, all sight and sound
Unseen or unheard,
But in this moment i sit and see and hear
And feel blissfully aware
Of standing on the shoulders of
Those who came before me
I can almost see it now
The great hands reaching down, down,
Shaping everything i see and more
To some exact measurement,
Cleaving oceans and lakes with the
Palm of a hand, plucking the remnants of
Land like leftover pastry, pinching it,
Swirling it into the towering monuments above me,
Foreboding, framing, fastening everything
In its place.
Art by Jennifer van der Merwe
