African Farm - by Sybille

African Farm - by Sybille



the yellowhite of one leftover tooth,
pumpkins ripening on the skew sink roof,
the crooked old farmhouse squats in the dirt,
a scraggly old hen over her brood



Inside its always dusk and in the gloom
dark ebony furniture people the room,
on the sideboard the Dutch bible,
source of strength for their survival



Ancestors in too tight sunday best and shawls,
look down from oval frames on white walls
lips and hair unnaturally colored in later,
with magenta and black



the old sturdy dining room table
around which little boer children said grace
over a meal of mutton pumpkin and maize,
dirty bare feet discreetly under the seat



Cool painted cement floors in the rooms,
covered in grandma's rugs from her loom,
and springbok skin worked by white hands to soft bloom



under the teak bedstead porcelain chamber pots
painted with fat cabbage roses,
peeks coyly from under crocheted bedspreads



memories of long sultry summer nights
listening for the grandfather clock to strike,
and turning over the pillow to its cool side



oh the innocent pleasures of yore,
a mug of condensed milk sweetened coffee
eaten with a boer rusk while sitting on the floor



from the kitchen ceiling orange peels suspended to dry,
one day to flavor milk tarts
or grandma's famous orange and date pie

the porch where we used to sit on long hot summer afternoons
sipping ginger beer with raisins in,
and disussing the corona around the moon,
maybe it means rain
tomorrow.