Thursday, October 6, 2016

Lion

the languid lion lifts his mane
tattoo-like scars on forelimbs & face
the aftermath of many scraps, once to the edge
of life; a gaze, easy-like-

sunday-morning
on river pool
where buffalo family swallows gallons
& robins & kingfishers swirl
slicing air

calf wanders unseen
in the direction
of the pulsing camouflage
coming oh-so-close 
to 
open nostrils & small cloud of flies
slowly, an urge to strike, 
to brush aside inertia, rising
in the belly
of the stiff-limbed one
then, quickly
buffalo mum, eye now turned eagle, canters
out of water; with
guiding horns
she gathers & sweeps the toddler away

our languid giant
has no appetite
for bruising blood-letting bash with
hardened spikes - horns remembered
all too well
from other sundays
in the highveld sun 

F.M.


Sketches - Frank Meintjies