This is an edit of last week’s blog post. Enjoy!
When last I reflect upon the verdant
fields near Dullstroom,
her majestic form fertilizes
my city-softened consciousness
to indite impressions
of the trout pond’s lonely hermitage;
stripped and felled trees
unburied on the back of a dwarf hill;
distant cows moaning for the rising sun;
mountain-bike paths winding
toward the elevated horizon.
But what will become of that virgin glen
that feels like a Romantic’s paradise?
If I, in body or mind,
were to call upon her again,
cruising down the battered road
toward that modern domicile –
anachronistic in this feudal atmosphere –
would humanity’s commercial tendencies
have altered it into an industrial hell-hole,
blessed silence shattered by the dirge
of construction butchering the landscape,
oozing out its ochre blood for all to see?
Even if the land is annexed
by capitalist Nazis,
I pray to find upon return
those familiar rolling pastures
possessed with a quint muteness
to cure my malignant tristfulness
as a melodic psithurism serenades my ears.