Meadows Of Gold Poem by Edwin Hopper

I remember another Salisbury long ago.
With Meadows of Gold and Mines of Gems below.

Sun shine super city, in the south, now gone away.
I suppose I must be senile. Penga. Mind astray.

Watching Avon flow, past my Lizzy Gardens bench,
floating those memories I try so hard to quench.

Playing happy families in the old days pre war.
Before the Chimurenga. The pointless deaths of all.

And if I saw Mugabe now? Yes, I would take aim.
My wife and old folks, Lie there. Down among the slain.

My son sells Buicks in Texas now. Down in Galveston.
Sure the grand kids are all fine, It's not quite African.

I have visited. They say. I could live there, Oh yes.
But, I'm too old, half dead now. Depend on the NHS

I learnt to drive a Buick, at home, on Granddad's farm.
Drove into a donga. That's how I chia'd my arm.

Used to go water skiing, up Lake McIlwaine.
God. Should I have stayed down there? Now it looks like rain.

I prefer this weeping grey, to blue sky Wedza Club.
Better clouds than drought. I think. I'll try graze in the pub.