At the curved Zambezi river-edge
the wide cane bed stood foot-end to the
water; intoxicated, sprawled over
white linen, I lay with not my feet,
but my chin hung over the edge.
I watched the sun melt, with sudden
swiftness fade into the darkening
water. I made some attempt to
close my eyes, but wonder held me
spellbound, too wide awake for rest.
Under mosquito netting and
the thatched roof of my tented cottage
I listened to the sounds of Africa.
The smells of Africa. Adrenalin
won over any compulsion to sleep.
My African dawn is rich with
aroma; with sickly-sweet
pong of monkey poo and the roiling
gurgle of hippo farts as the sun
heralds reappearance over
a bright orange horizon and gold,
river gold highlighting the heads,
small ears and the mammoth mouths
of partially submerged hippos;
a red-gold fire flickering in
circles of Zambezi water.
And flaming the jewel green of
dung beetles busy removing
the evidence of monkeys from
under the tree at the head of my bed.