Oh September rain
You drench my folded vale.
Your cold and cheerless mist
Like linen, soft and pale.
But you seduce. You persist.
And your verdant prize
Is my Holy Grail.
Gone be fawn and dust.
Out with brown and drought!
It is your sparkling stream for which I lust.
And water for my Trout.
Come grace us with your driving squalls,
And saturate us in your dew.
Oh how I have prayed for you!
August here in the KZN midlands is not a pretty time of year. At the end of a long winter, the entire province is tinder dry, and starting to heat up. We often experience “Berg winds” (For foreigners, that is winds blowing out of the North West over the Drakensberg, and not unlike the Santa Anna’s in California).
Normally when you crest the hill and find a flock of cranes in front of you, they take to the air before you can grab your camera.
This day I was lucky:
A cloudy winter dawn
The first light of day brings honking geese
Hinting at what lies beyond the drawn curtains,
and out across the drab patchwork landscape:
Low slung cloud, and dampened dust,
Odours of dead wet kikuyu grass,
and a wafting hint of silage, hanging in the still morning air.
And farmyard sounds that carry in the silence
Pervading morning memories of childhood on the farm.
Nostalgia nestled in the moment,
Like my sleepy being in this warm bed.