Wind And Stones In A Brook Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In the tawny lane carrying
a brook and the river,
water tramps home into sand

and marsh, the low wind over
flying over
paddles through puffing gusts.

By a hillside of rock we're built
with silt squeezing silt

and clay rubbing sands
and stitching chards of sand
to climb the Boyo Hill.

Let's trudge after the footprints
and sole holes of a brook
kissed by stooping lilies

lighting a wind's humming path
over a river' babbling brook.

(ii)

Spin the stone in you
hardened into a stone's fist.
Drill a door into the stone
with drill and spear
to reach a corridor in a rock,

into which a wind of life
swirls into a storm's push,
flipping you out
of a circus to wheel you
into a whirlpool spun

in a watershed of tears,
with which we cleanse ourselves.

(iii)

Paced-up like a slow worm
under torrents of air tilting
a bird of Paradise's flying sword

to dodge the voiceless
stroke of a straight line
or squiggled slash

and carry a self-piloted scratch
on a stone's back to bleed
until wind-glazed
to shine under the sun's brush.