Wink
for Nia Outis

     i.
Words ripple in on the wind,
on the water,
pools are clearer
than a brooding heart.

     ii.
Far, far on the eastern horizon
is a shy wink of silver
on the sky-clouded sea.

 - Silke Heiss  

elke dag word my hande hergebore

met die saad van 'n oneindigende veld

van gebare

   *

die kuns van die kleine

is die strewe werd:

een klein tree

is die begin van

die duisend-myl pelgrimstog

   *

hier met die woorde

so digby my

voel ek so tuis en geanker

deel van genesing lê 

in taal

   *

speel spel

spul spaander

spat spalk

spoel spoeg

spuit sprei

sproei spog 

spruit

die woordspieëlings    

   *

drup-drup die dig-druppels

watter grond 

gaan hulle natlei 

vandag?

   *

uit die traankliere van die druppelinge

 - motreën - 

die stil ekstase van 

seëninge

 - Lara Kirsten

A dirge for Lochart
for Jen Whyle

Again, as years ago,
I heard the forest in the valley
chant – a haunting, mystic sound,
unmistakeable.
At first I thought it was humans,
so choral was the chant –
but humans can’t traverse
the thick, virgin forest there.

Then I realised the ‘Standing People’*
were offering a gift.
They chanted four or five times,
at irregular intervals.
Everything else was still,
and mist lay quietly,
veiling the valley.

And it occurs to me,
in the writing of this,
that the trees brought up through their roots,
nourished by the Tyume River,
a dirge for Lochart,
a fine man, of the good earth,
whose sudden death shook
not only the two-leggeds.

          – The Edge, 1st February 2024 (two days after Lochart died)

 - Silke Heiss


*The name given to trees by the indigenous inhabitants of America.