That brownish chicken
Whose uncouth beak
Has become the straw
Siphoning yolks
...
Not by croco and hippo
That ply the Limpopo
With tooth and maw
...
Let it rain ashore
At sea though deluged
They are retreating from land
...
Before you fell trees
Take stock of their branch and stalk
Count the nests thereupon
Whether eyrie or of dove.
...
There go around whirlwinds
Whizzing in the willows
Whistling in the meadows
Whispering to the copses
...
I sit on the shacky balcony of time
Entangled by the gossamer of its web
I count the tickling tinctures of its arm
I feel it's tentacles spreading to grope me
...
Basking in the fizzling flame of time
Wincing to the creak and tingle of lumbago
Losing tinge of youth to the tints of senescence
Bemused no more by butterflies of the balcony
...