Life on the Cape Flats

Mark Espin

The sparrows are betrayed by the sudden
end of season. In the ensuing cold,
original thought eludes the preoccupations
of the mind; dwindles like water
pooled in a palm, leaving the puerile sediment
of vanquished expectations.

Another market crisis terrifies the speculators,

and in the courtyard of the assembly
virulent insects hover about the trees.
Time accelerates toward apocalypse
or revolution, and maggot-infested fruits
collapse from the branches; the atrophy
of observed nature.

The diplomat delivers an incomprehensible
line of stock phrases, punctuates
the briefing, with the melodrama of jargon.
His sanguine vocabulary is dead leaves.

The rage of the populace is shelved
beneath a glacier of rhetoric,
as the head of state mimics the river’s lullaby.

The night draws flames and blood
in equal measure,
blisters the cornea of the eyes.

The sparrows flee the sky,
which is damaged
by sporadic gunfire.

LitNet: 23 August 2006

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