Night unclads at the riverside
with her gown perfumed with silence
slowly dropping on a mat of
clams and gasping Tilapia.
Pillow of pebbles that turns into gold
when the morning sun kisses
the earth with Midas lust.
Her eyes searches every ripple
returning from errands unsent
to her bare thighs.

The exiled moon returns home
to inspire the chicken-hearted lover
on his thousandth unread love-letter.

An anthill poised like a forgotten god
standing on the border
of a lost territory
on whose sacred shrine
now stands the crucifix.

Invocations awakens
the river god sleep-walking to her bed.
She births the fishermen
fortunes on nets, fish hooks
and the praise of proud housewives.

Morning takes desperate strides
to take the glory of night
when the fishers bow before the black sun
that warms the heart of Africa
inconsolably mourning her sons
that were dumb at home
but now sings her songs in a strange land.

- Martins Deep