By Joanne Tippett, (British Poetry review 1994)
Blood on red walls of gullies in the mind
Rending my existence into shattered fragments
Unraveling the certainties of edifices I had built.
The round houses with mud plaster
Red against the blue doors, grass roofs tidy hair,
Smile but remain obscure.
I exist at the edge
Of my own and Basotho culture
Which beckons and retreats under an African sun.
I tend to the garden -
Unfurling its green tenderness
Whilst brown beer bottles build the
Fluid dams in minds channel
Down which my truths run, sweeping the silt of habit
And from which new meanings
Push forth green fingers into the sun,
Dig roots to cling to the tumbling particles of thought
And resist the erosion of self.
In this intimate connection of daily living
Weave a fibrous net in contours on the mindscape
To catch each idea - examine anew
In the light of others eyes
As slowly we build defenses against the crumbling of the land.