The light

Robert Berold

A boomslang stretches out
to probe a nest. A cloud of birds
surrounds it, frantic.

It slinks across to eat its prey,
swerves into the foliage,
cuts the light in two.

***

The sun shines pale and white
the sunspots flaring and plunging in.
A baboon on the ridge barks at his clan.

In the mountains the radio signal comes
and goes. Scraps of torn cloud glitter.
Light. Sky covering sky. Wind.

***

The terraces were made many years ago,
contours cut straight to irrigate lucerne.
you can see their lines on the aerial map.

Now they are covered with thin blue flowers
that close up when the light goes and
shreds of flayed clouds colour the sky.

***

On the highway to Karatara
on golden wires the swallows
sit flat folded at the end of day.

At the turnoff to the third gate
the light is so intense
the insects blink.

***

Who can explain
how beauty works, except to say
– here – move over here.

The light goes down in thick air.
And we’re alone in the long together
nights and days.

An earlier version of this poem was published in New Coin

LitNet: 20 December 2005

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