white blossoms in the air
one more spring in the exile I chose
that becomes addictive to itself
cold April London streets
and record bins in Soho basement stores
the damp smiles which invite me from afar
white Kalahari butterflies
the smell of fresh cow dung
the taste of ripe marula fruit is sweet
sitting by acacia trees
fingers in the shallow dusty soil
caressing Africa as a lover would
then she embraces me
like a soul in memory
an orphan child finding its mother's knee
to protect her now in turn
I witness her defence against
all blind and negative publicity
in the maelstrom of the West
that speaks no unconditional word
in generosity, be sure
a new thing each day is begun
as I fight off voices whispering
my life's work has been done.
Frank Bana
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kalahari-butterflies/
