Liane Greef

Running Backwards 
The second halves of Now and What could have been

The moon shines above us all.
From the south, beating to the rhythm
of the relentless waves that pound,
the sea air carries the scent,
beating in time with her heart,
and the drums from the distant plains.
She is lucky, she thinks.
Her world, her haven.
Soft and subtle,
the music soothes her.
Today, the world is invited.
Whether or not to let the world in,
she can choose.
In her bedroom,
she likes to be alone.

The fynbos is intense in the distance,
the green and the golden.
The tip of Trappieskop,
the afternoon sun glows.
The door is open,
American Indian plains songs
African men singing.
Listening to the songs of the plains,
she lies on her bed.
Wafting around her room,
the smell of the sea.

Directions for tomorrow,
giving them to the clan
telling them, bringing hope,
saying what the voices say.
The others ask her what tomorrow will bring.
The possibilities,
the reweaving of today,
the memories of yesterday:
the voices in her head telling her.

Warmth of the burning logs,
the night breeze
of gentle snores.
The coolness of watching, the sounds.
Night. Watching the fire,
slightly alert, watching the darkness,
her dog bristling –
odd coyote barks in the far.
Her and the utter darkness and the
frogs in chorus in-between.
She loves the sounds of the night,
the stars of the night sky.
Still a sliver, the moon bright tonight.
The wolf dog by her side,
her family sleeping behind her.
In the doorway of the open tent
she sits on a cushion near the fire.
In smoky smells of dry logs,
the wood burning fire’s release.


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