Donkey Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

His coarse, claggy tongue
licks leaves from branches
till the small parasol of shade
is bare. It’s too hot
to circle the whole tree, yet
an agony of standing still
as flies clot on his skin:
the scabs buzz just beyond
his flicking tail.

No elegance
in his drooping head, tormented eye.
A stoic stare, oblivious
of surprise, contemplates the stones.
Tiny creatures patter in the dust.

His protest is a burping
sucking whistle like desquamate rust.