Original Poetry

Carrion Bird

You, Vulture –
Paltry predator all dark swoop and circle
Presiding over impoverished prey.
You, carrion bird,
Claw at a country cracked open
Like a carcass;
Split at the ribs,
Brittle bone broken by too many beaks
And too many burdens.
You gouge out our eyeballs and eat them,
But we’ve been watching you –
Feasting on famished flesh
Knowing you can fly further afield.
Yes, you, Scavenger,
Skuttering across naked skulls,
Preening feathers when you’re full
All gluttony and greed
And get-give-me-grasping, –
And the guilt?
It was not your claws that did the killing:
Blame Lions for all the bloodshed,
Heap the horror on Hyenas,
But you, Mr. Marabou,
Do you hear?
Grim ghouls still groan in the grip of your grace.

 

Copyright © November 2017, Lyndsey England

Original Poetry

Elegy For Elephants

Between the boughs of a baobab embrace
A grey ghost groans in his wretched resting place:
Blessèd are the bare bones that bore the weight
Of ivory ignorance, greed, and hate.

The solitary procession prepares to pass;
A lonely elephant left for last
Whose Wisdom’s watched the world contract:
Watched bullets ricochet through rainsplash,
Watched the Zambezi run bloody as a body
broke open – bore witness
To every nimble knife gash. Cold
Cruel memory is not difficult to harness:
He unfurls his trunk to cradle bone;
Recalls how they callously cut through the carcass.
Grief is an abscess, putrid and gaping;
the Old Comrade trumpets, tired – an orchestra of aching.

You cannot but marvel at the nature of God’s grace
When David revels in the agony on this Goliath’s face.

Copyright © May 2017, Lyndsey England

Original Poetry

Jacarandas

Jacarandas

In between the hopscotch paint,
The jungle gym, the monkey bars;
Spread amid the tyre swings,
The small brown shoes, the sandpit;
In amongst the classrooms: the carpets scuffed,
The gutters clogged;
Falling into the swimming pool,
Summer sun, the diving board;
Framing roads leading home and back,
Too soon Septembers blooming lilac –
Just as afternoons taste of Tanganda
My youth is littered with
Jacarandas.

Copyright © March 2017, Lyndsey England

Original Poetry

My Africa Is Warmth – It Burns

It’s no belts in the backseat,
The sun shining and bare feet.
Some people say that Africa has a rhythm
But the reality of Africa is a flavour;
Tastes something like wet dirt, sunscreen,
And the sweat from manual labour.
Africa can rob a swarm of bees of their honey
And with sticky hands unscathed
Those same fingers snatch a beggar’s money.
It’s that empty-belly-ache-dying-for-a-little-taste,
Ballooning children, going to waste –
But sunsets;
Egg yolk yellow leaking into
orange spilling over
to kiss the watery cheek of Lake Kariba:
…………..Some say corruption is a two-way street –
Have you ever tried to love a place synonymous with deceit?

Copyright © February 2017, Lyndsey England