The dust from which we descend
Moistened in the valley’s
Winding tears
Barely swims
With the flood of years
When did this sphere
First begin to turn
The first born
Warmed by the sun
While the rest sighed
In the soft chill of night
Winds against this
Crying face
Find the smiles
In every trace
Whether in joy
Or suppressed sorrow
Rejoined in the warm
Waiting seas
Of our tomorrow.

unnamedPhoto by T.P. Wilkinson

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is author of Unbecoming American: A War Memoir and also Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..