Butterflies in the Breeze



  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