THE SKULL LAUGHS THOUGH THE FACE CRIES Poem by Wilma Stockenström

One day, I know, I'll outface
death with skull grinning. At least
I'll retain my sense of humour. But
whether, like the late Mrs. Ples
or the bluebuck of my native land,
I'll warrant a glass case in a museum . . . ?
Man is not exactly a rare animal.

Still, how clever we are with our
inner clockwork-genius, how strong
the wide swaying crane-like gestures
with which we drop rectangular skyscrapers
in residential areas and business centres.
Remarkable our scrambling research
right through dolomite to sink our arms
shaft-deep to grab and haul up
the grey ore, grinding
and refining it to bar on bar of hive-like
packed safes of investments. Oh yes,
absolutely marvelous our ability to enrich
discarded sand to fire-dust
which, if we wanted to, might just
furiously, beautifully burn up everything
in an ultimate unrepeatable blaze.

Didn't I say the skull laughs
though the face cries?