At the banquet-bakery I see a cemetery on display
with a small liquorice-gate turned skew
and graves row upon row between flowers in a dale,
the garden is so carefully made and so pretty
and all of it out of icing-sugar and marzipan,
pressed out in cake forms with big brown fields,
with a meandering river over the whole big aria
and his love for the rural district is bold,
with a homestead where there is a paddock with horses
and next to the house a windmill and a round dam,
as if he wants to go back to a place of his childhood days,
with a farmer with a pipe on a fallen brown trunk,
fat Frisian black and white cows that graze in the green veldt,
and as if I can smell the veldt everything looks so familiar to me.
© Gert Strydom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem