The River [2} Poem by Gert Strydom

Where it whispers over rocks and pebbles
the river flows on
through timid pools

sometimes through dried up dongas
as a mere stream
flowing with its life giving liquid

at times in flood
thundering with water
streaming over its set banks.

Native women carry buckets
balanced on their heads
to its banks that they scoop full

seeing their own reflection,
hearing the murmur of its song
before they travel on.

Commercial farmers spray their crops
of maize and wheat from pivot points
pump water for their herds of cattle and sheep

that graze upon the fields
and pray for rain
when the river runs dry

and then day after day
watch the sky
for signs of falling showers

and where it whispers over rocks and pebbles
the river flows on twisting and meandering
through timid pools on it's way to the sea.