The Desert Wells (Kalahari Cattle Posts) Poem by Frank Bana

It was springtime in the Highveld, I was only twenty-two
He took me to the open plains where desert flowers grew
Where weavers built their summer homes, hyenas roamed and plundered
He drove through mists of dancing heat, the storms of evening thundered

They drilled so deep and desperate for the siren scent of water
Young men with crude divining rods, the cattle bred for slaughter
We asked for buckets from the wells, San people living there
Refilled our metal jerrycans, swaying on sorghum beer

We flattened trails in new-born bush, gathering information
On age and health and livelihood, the last nomadic nation
I studied all his methods as he raged on Nixon's crimes
His stubborn mid-west bravery, attentive at all times

And time confirmed all that I learned, and suffered for it after
The memories of morning breeze, the moonlight's silent laughter
My spirit knows her origin, the wells I did not reach yet
He teaches now in Michigan, the desert guards her secret

I taste the wind from Africa, fine particles of sand
The devil's claw scoring my skin, red flowers in my hand
The pricking of the cactus, the green acacia's tear
The scars upon my heart, your healing fingers in my hair.


With thoughts of Bob Hitchcock