If you ever pass through Cookhouse Station
make certain you see what is there.

Not just the long neat platform beneath the escarpment,
and the red buckets,
and the red and white booms
but the Christmas beetle as well
which zings like a tireless lover
high in the gum-tree all the hot day.

Read Cookhouse Station

Hitching across a dusty plain one June,
down one of those dead-straight platteland roads,
I met a man with rolled-up khaki sleeves
who told me his faults and then his beliefs.
It's amazing, some people discuss more
with hitch-hikers than even their friends.

His bakkie rattled a lot on the ruts
so I'm not exactly sure what he said.
Anyway, when he'd talked about his church
and when the world had changed from mealie-stalks
to sunflowers, which still looked green and firm,
he lowered his voice, and spoke about his shades.

Read In Praise of the Shades

The pool is as you'd suppose it to be,
  green and narrow, mirroring cycads,
the clouds and crags of a deep ravine.
  Spined succulents thicket the banks,
the pleated rocks and slithery shale.

And we are as you would imagine us,
  sprawled on rugs with thermos flasks,
discussing new hardware and software,
  exchanging stories of burn-out, stress,
armed robberies and patients with aids.

Read Tea at Hlambeza Pool