The waiting, the calling…: A poem 

Noises outside. I’m at the door with a cup of tea 

Is it the sound of triumph? Or is it just insane me? 

The burning of fires is the flowing sap of my tree 

The prolific earth over the horizon is my theme 

This wind is so motive, it breaches all frontiers 

Even broken bridges will stand strong over the years 

Tornados whistle in my ears like a giant roulette 

of colours brown and yellow, white and scarlet 

Patience is the hardest work; there’s duty in silence 

Destiny measures the character of undulating resilience 

Yes, I’ve hurt the ones I love, trespassed kindness with rage 

Each time I felt no guilt at shattering every old adage 

But I have been misread; so, God succour me in my grief 

His hand of dispassionate justice is entrenched in my belief 

That I have erred aplenty, but it was simply my humble calling 

When fate comes full circle, the victims will not go falling