This spinning earth from time to time,
may turn my head
but, I dare not long neglect my duties –
too many who depend on me,
eyes uncertain asking –
Any news from up river?
Father shuffling toward another death,
mother befuddled with fear;
loved ones sent out daily to gather
fresh greens in abandoned minefields.
Whistle while you work, my Beloved advises,
but, keep digging.
The stench of death is on the breeze;
crocodiles at the watering hole,
only their eyes visible above the surface.
I keep an ear to the rail; gleaning
what I can from the shimmering air –
for my own files, of course,
but also, for loved ones
who keep asking for the truth
of rescue and escape.
arguing in the dark over elephant shapes.
O child of God, everything is in His hands and yet,
there’s much work to do before winter sets in.
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