Sleeplessness (Free Verse Sonnet) Poem by Gert Strydom

When the turbines at Impala platinum
sing right through the night at a high tone,
at the goldmine it sounds as if a monster
or hellish lifts do groan under something,
the dull drums in the squatter-camp
and that whistle that does constantly shrill,
at the black newcomers in the neighbourhood the bull
that for hours is being slaughtered for a funeral,
the unholy tortured fearful bellowing
that never gets an end while they await some spirits to come,
when the train clatters and gives a long whistle
as if it's stuck somewhere and cannot continue
and they say that you do get used to all of this
in the elite residential aria of Petersfield extension one.