A poem about South Africa and the uncertainty, those of us who live here, face...

Summer recedes and this old homeland fights its descent,
While a voice in the wind speaks of a new discontent.
But in the hidden and quiet corners of a failing land,
Barefoot children still dance to the rhythms of a tin band.

Autumn rises and the fear of a nation rises too:
Riding ten hundred thousand promises that never came through.
But the browning nights seem to be immune to its dread,
As the Southern Cross shines over a homeless man’s bed.

Winter descends heavy and the icy, dry months follow;
Still the politicians argue, while the dust clouds bellow.
But the land is at peace in this season’s succumbing,
Like the clearing that precedes an untouched beginning.

Spring is born again and the new lands cry for rain;
There’s thunder in the heat and hunger in the grain.
But the dark soil of this dark continent lies in unrelenting wait
For an incorruptible hand to tend it and shape its people’s fate.