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POETRY

by Margot Van Sluytman
ALBA THE SPANISH WOMAN

Alba is here, today, like always.
It is she who lights the golden sun,
Who polishes the silver stars.
Each day, focused upon her work,
The grass broom and
The Rose bud in her hand,
She moves the world. With care.
With wisdom,
And her long black hair,
And brilliant black eyes.
She drinks the colours issuing from
The garden below. Where the magenta
Hibiscus spread. She tastes each soft
Moment of time, knowing its worth.
She cleans and dreams,
And cleans and dreams.
While the lush green avocados ripen
On the black branches below the sun,
And while the white and tender
Doves ease their way, in fluent flight,
Towards heaven.
IN THE GARDEN
I am going back to Gethsemane
It is there I wish to be reborn.
I go, taking the breeze and the sun with me.
And thirty-three stunning stars.
And the ripe hopes of a child who knows
The world for the first time.
Travelling upon the ancient roads.
Between the catacombs, hidden.
Where the faded images proclaim
The dead, awaiting resurrection.
Yesterday, I gave my will to a soft
And rapid course. I journey.
My burial will be a brilliant
Nightmare. In
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