Zandspruit as the Sun Sets

Zandspruit as the Sun Sets

We leave Zandspruit one cold evening, just

as the African sun pushed into the smoke  from the

Highveld fires, into the township haze of winter.

The tin shacks with rippled walls stand, one family pushed

up against the next, up against the next.  I know nothing

of life here as I drive through, locked inside my Land Cruiser

watching the kids run in the muddy streets, the township dogs,  the

laundry drying on fences, chickens and roosters and rubble

and VW Golfs pressed against houses, blocks holding them in midair.

We drive past the open air market where you can buy Dickies hats,

fresh cabbage, where a Mozambican woman cooks

potatoes and chicken in a potjie . I look in my side mirror

watch the woman, the security guard, the Woolsworths  worker

return to their homes. I see them framed in the glass, frozen

there in the coming winter night.

Here is how to pronounce potjie. They are similar to Dutch ovens, but more like a witch’s cauldron.

Here is a look into Zandspruit. We were there to deliver some items and help one of my wife’s employees that was living there at the time.

As I am going through these ekphrasis exercises with my own photos, I post rough-ish drafts of them. It is important to write for the craft of poetry. I will revise and hone the ones that I like, but I still think they are worthy of posting. I hope you enjoy!