Matahara
This morning I stopped
to listen to a robin singing
in the tall birch tree
that overhangs our garden.
It is mid-August in Wales
but the robin’s singing
was the wistful and shrill
notes of an October song.
And it’s on cold clear
mornings like this
that I am reminded
of a small town
called Matahara
in the Rift valley
A lorry stop
on the badly cambered
rutted out road
from Addis to Djhibuti.
And of staying overnight
in the old school
over-shadowed by the cauldera
of Mount Fantalle
And woken by the sounds
of camels and the shouts
and whistles of men
returning safely again
from the long search
for nourishing pasture
emerging through
the rising dust
that shrouded and gauzed
the clear light of morning.
The sight of a man
running and carrying
a new born camel
on his shoulders.
And the sounds
of the joy of children
welcoming the men
their fathers, uncles
and brothers safely
back to their homes
All this will stay with me
for the time allowed
as I hear that the rains
have failed again.
RAC
Published in “Uncertain Times” Octavo Press 2016.
Celfypridd 