It’s mid-September in Namaqualand.
After the rains the stones take root
and blossom from the hills down to the streams.
Each morning, as the earth warms up, a mist
of colour spreads: God’s gasp of wonderment.
Tourists plash along the muddy country roads
through open farm gates that let God’s garden in.
From Kamieskroon to Skilpad, Garagams and Groenrivier,
Garies, Wallekraal, Soebatsfontein
the flowering fields have gone unharvested
till mid-September’s parching storms of dust.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem