Mother is singing,
Singing the song of bracelets
And coral beads stopping
Right at the ankles,
Songs that reverberate in the
Smoke overwhelmed hut
Flanked by pots of yams,
Droppings of hens and stank
With the faeces of goats.
Father is whistling,
Whistling in a sotto voce that
Defies its essence,
Whistling of the prospects of
Evening fellowship of
Raffia palm wine while in
Gauntlets and suspended guns
In preparation of the night's hunt,
Whistles that disturb the
Already offended cockerels
With coco yams tendrils sprout
From flower vases.
Children are fuming,
Fume fired by astonishment,
The kind that befall the meticulous
Rabbit miraculously trapped in
A cage, the blood is burning,
Burning into embers to quicken
The stone being cooked in
The big steaming pot on fire.
YOU ARE READING
MIDNIGHT SUN
PoetryToday, we ought to wear our gauntlets, Put on our amour and canvass grits, Forward! Though our sword are skillets, We win even though we lost by bits.
