Creosote

Is the scent

of an ancestor’s skull kicked
down a bush runway –
an elephant remembers

bones and dust,

the echo of hyena
comedy nights, jaws
on buffalo bones

chalk and dust,

a tall silhouette beyond the runway
a blind man – inhales the dusk
for ghost-lions
before crossing to light
the camp fire

blood and dust

in the dark, leopards
gaze at embers
of an ancient story

fate throws the bones,
a plane flies

into a hillside

flesh and blood,
bones and dust,

and creosote.

Synaesthesia

This perfection:

deep indigo of the blueberry,

saturated primaries of the King Parrot,

ochres painted by the setting sun,

is exquisite pain; I want its DNA,

to become the silence of the desert night,

whisper of quarks in the inky blackness,

nocturnal song of the African bush,

to inhale sensation of crushed silk,

embody cool water on skin,

synthesize oblivion of deep sleep.

But these are lambent shadows,

intangible ticklings

of some ancient sense –

when observed, they are gone.