Josephine Jacobsen(1908–2003)
Bush
It is the sound of lions lapping.
They drink themselves
from the gold shapes that waver
and grow shallower.
Blue peels itself in the water-
hole; it is the sun coming.
Crouched, the lions m e e t
their m a t c h e s at the surface.
T h e foxy jackals are far off
but the vultures cloud the flat treetop;
the drum of the zebra's body
is lined with red sunrise.
T h e jackals and vultures are waiting
for what happened under the moon.
T h e lions are through with it; they
lift their dripping chins and look ahead.
It is six o'clock on Christmas morning.
N o w the lions have stopped lapping
the bush makes no sound
the vultures shift, but without sound.
T h e day is perfectly seamless.
Slowly the lions move like pistons past the dry grasses;
the jackals do not move yet;
the vultures show patience.
T h e lions pass a thornbush and melt.
T h o u g h the w h o l e day is unbroken
the passage of the sun will represent heaven;
the b o n e s will represent time.