John Garth Raubenheimer (21/12/1947 / Johannesburg)

As the rain came whispering down
they whisper up and up.
A profligate god fills the sky with flimsy wings.
They flow in a stream into the night
from a hole in the ground,
and I am a giant swotting them down
with a slat torn off an apple box.
I am nine years old
and smacking down the flying ants is a joy
akin to playing with water.
My shadow elongates under the stoep light
confirming that I am ten yards tall.
Ruthlessly I swing my weapon.
The air is rich with the smell of watered dust.
The lawn is seething with their wingless bodies.
Fifty years on it is too late for pity.
They are giving their lives to make me happy.