by James Forson
Butterflies in the Breeze
James Forson
Other works from James Forson:
Remembering Ramosa: a biography of Robert Forson
Wooden Overcoat: the story of the Drakensberg Air Service [editor]
Letters from Lonehill; a book of short stories
Bright Shadows; a novel
Find out more at jamesforsonwriter.wordpress.com
Copyright © 2015 James Forson
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To Belenois Aurota,
the swarms of white butterflies which pass through our garden each year during their annual migration from South Africa’s west coast to Madagascar.
Introduction
We sat in our garden.
A butterfly came over the wall.
We became enthralled as it flitted from bush to flower.
We were captivated by its delicacy, its fragile beauty.
We were lost in its delicate form.
Then, in a puff of wind, it disappeared over the wall.
And we were alone in that exquisite instant.
It is my hope that at least one poem in this collection will give you a butterfly moment.
Sawubona
I see you.
A heartfelt affirmation of another human being
Ignoring rank and age and school and clan
I see you.
Soul to soul, a greeting and a tender tangent
Reaching out across the barriers
Accept me for who I am to be for you
A common sharing, free acceptance
I am here
The Troyeville Hotel
The roads are busy and the air is filled with smells
that are unknown but very much unpleasant.
The parking attendant is helpful which is kind.
A steel-barred door is opened and then a flight of steps
And then I’m on the “terrace” of the Troyeville Hotel.
It’s dignified and run-down; its faults are all well-known.
The bar is full of locals and the television’s on.
Someone mops a floor and another spreads a cloth
Across a table; no great grace and elegance enough.
A run-down hotel on the dingy side of town.
Honest fare on hand; the kitchen don’t inspect.
We’re sitting down at table at the Troyeville Hotel.
A farm road near Thabazimbi
a dusty road held together by crooked fences
a funnel of dust chases our car
now bushveld now grassland now craggy koppies
birds perched on telephone poles farm gates lurching at an angle
and then
a glimpse through the trees
was that a kudu
or were we deceived in our eagerness
a black backed jackal
no it can’t be
so late in the day
here and there a farmhouse peers out from under a tree-canopy
a home for many generations perhaps
a fort to hold the urgent world away
at last the landmark on our left the stately wild fig tree
to slow to turn to stop
and then unhook the gate
we have arrived
Saturday morning
unaccustomed sunshine
happy prospect of new things
time not urgent
hot coffee
sipping
time to think
away from frenzied week
from daily drudge
a moment for myself
The St Joseph’s Lily
I saw the beauty of the flower…….
Brim-full bred with floral power.
I saw it wilt and die away
Until of a withered heap it lay;
Limp and lifeless in decay.
The Cape Chat
with a hop hop hop and a cheeky tail
and a peck peck here and a hop over there
the little Cape Chat passes my study window
a little bird
a busy bird
and plump in winter plumage
a pleasant interlude
a windfall delight
as I look out
the little bird goes hop hop hopping along the ragged path
and it will never know the moment
as it went past my study window
The new Challenge
The sunny winter day reminds that all things end
But brings the promise of the Spring.
contentment.
No longer have to grasp and strive.
A gentle insight gained with time, of how this life unrolls.
stretching of the mind.
A peacefulness, serenity. Accepting new demands.
A time to visit once again the youth-time passions.
To reach back, grasp, and bring to form
things I left behind
Perhaps the greatest charge of all is to take on new direction lost ago;
A closing of the circle round.
A quest to be confined.
Waiting for Work
A self-employed management consultant’s lament.
The mails have gone out; the calls have been made.
Now comes the long wait till someone responds.
Sometimes they do –
And sometimes they don’t.
There’s no point in fretting;
if they need me they’ll call.
So what can I do?
Keep still and relax.
There’s no point in pestering or frantic cold-calling.
They always come back to me in the end.
Clouds over Johannesburg
The clouds pack on the horizon.
Dark. Heavy. Swollen.
The heat is hard.
The thunderheads stack like fortresses.
The wind begins its wash.
Swirls and eddies, bending trees.
The thunder roughens up the air;
The lightning rips the sky.
Drops fall in staggered pattern –
The smell of rain in dust.
The heat is broken;
Drops on face.
With thankful heart –
And comforting embrace.
The Family Cat
He lies like a slug on the sofa,
With tiny paws curled back around his nose;
Eyes tight shut and gentle snore
He whiles away the blissful day.
Sometimes he’ll sit up and look around;
Or gazing middle-distance far,
Engage in deep-found intellectual thought;
Or simply sit and stare, and stare.
From time to time he wails out loud
Causing panic in his servants
As they divine his feline needs and thoughts.
Perhaps it’s food; perhaps a comfort-pat?
With subtle skill he rules the home.
His gentle love and kindly ways
Ensure a duvet warm or cushion soft
Is always shared with him – the family cat.
The Mugg and Bean at Margate
A curled-up kitty on a vacant chair.
The aimless music no-one seems to hear.
Dotted laptops sip the free Wi-Fi.
The waiters run and chat and clear and hope for kindly tips.
The menu’s on the table and the noise is rising fast;
The traffic’s roaring past on the way to somewhere good.
And old folk waddle in and argue where to sit.
A hearty cappuccino an
d a croissant warm the heart.
Let’s enjoy this day; tomorrow we go home.
Over my Shoulder
Long memories go back to things not spoken about.
Situations then unclear come now into sunlight.
Opportunities rose and not taken up
And other families had links and lines unknown to me.
Access to holidays and working games
Which I did not know and could not see.
So now I understand the lonely path I had to go;
The doors that closed and uphill long;
I journeyed on along, alone…..
I grasped what came to hand and made it of my own
Thunder Storm
hot and quiet - afternoon
the air is liquid thick
the thunder will be sounding soon
with the lightning quick
the wind will shove the trees
the passing ruffled moment
and then the rain release
rain smell upon the steaming pavement
Settling down to write
the cup of tea sits next to the open laptop,
it’s time to come home to an old friend
as homely as a yellow Labrador
lying on the bottom bunk bed.
the moon is a child’s lost toy
and an unused cigar cutter lies on its side.
it’s a long, long searching journey
and the leaves lie scattered on the grass.
Downtown Sandton
office blocks and towers tall: streets with cars and trucks
stark passages in dark shade; and people crossing anywhere
some in suits or just in jeans; brisking in the aft’noon air
on the way to somewhere special, or perhaps just passing time
the first impression given us is one of working hard
but maybe it’s a mask-adorn to hide the emptiness behind
The Winter Garden
it’s a warm winter afternoon
birds flutter and perch and search for food
and I am part of it
at one with garden, trees and birds
a quiet mind to take the moment
a comfort for the soul
The Coffee Shop
Warm, inviting, mismatched furniture. Modern made to look like old.
Bare masonry walls and waiters with long aprons.
The smell of coffee.
Meetings. Clusters. Friends. Discussion. A human warmth expanding.
Laptops, cakes and cell phones complete the gentle setting.
The sight of coffee
The order taken. Sitting back with newspaper spread wide.
It arrives brim-full, dark and strong.
That first embracing sip.
Day Dream 1
warm tight afternoon
soft sun lapping air
gentle
pause to enjoy
assimilate
take back
in time
gentle memories
