The Squatter’s Camp Poem by Gert Strydom

White, black, coloured and Indian children
play along the stinking tributary
where drain water sewers in
and try to catch
small frogs and crabs here and there
while the sun hangs exhausting
next to the squatter’s camp.

People working for daily wages
walks along tiredly
in the late afternoon
and wonder where to find food
for the next day
while snot and spittle
run from the noses and mouths
of the playing children
and flies circle
around them.

In the distance thunder roars
from a nearing storm
and the air is steely grey
and everybody knows
that nobody will tonight be dry,

but a boy points to a rainbow
that hang bright
with beautiful colours in the sky
and speechless the people look
at the marvel
from the hand of God
and it’s really difficult times.