These are the things I remember, well
The raising clouds over the smokey hill
into the Natal Moon
where the Boer sharp shooter
plies his  *** shot luck at us,
Rooi Necks  over the ridge
and we drink in mirth
surviving another capricious  Summer

Butterfly with wings of dew
Flickering here and there
Even when you are still
Your wings beat
Your flight is erratic
Never smoothly done
You work so hard it seems
Trembling on the air
To the left and right
In fits and spurts
Landing a hanging grip
On a flower
Your wings breathing
Up down, together apart
Then off to the next beauty
Another drink and shaky flight
Across the blooming field
Over the crest of the hill
And gone from sight.

So intricately
Woven,
As if of
Silk Thread,
To gaze
Upon
A Spider's Web.

Sunny Day,
Beams
Breaking
Through.

Green leaves,
Swaying
Effortlessly.

It lays
High up,
Balancing
Steadily,
Despite
A constant
Breeze.

Holding
Securely,
The captured
Souls of
Unfortunate
Fates.

Quickly spun,
Encapsulated
Tombs
Afloat...

She waits
For the next
Prey,
Weaving
Her artistry,
Day by day.

Life-
In a
Spider's web.

Slopes
Covered
In snow,
Now melting,
On this peak,
Just
A suggestion,
Awakened
In the dark.

It sinks
Into
These lungs.

A beautiful song,
Lamenting
Something
Never lost.

Heat
Pouring
Into seams
And soil,
Going
Far
Beneath
The ground,
Continuously
Until
Losing steam.

Quickly recovering.

Your hands
Tracing
Mountains,
A curved
River invades
In an
Overture,
Overtly
Aware,
Wanting
More
And more.

No cure.

Drink
From
The fountain
Until full.

And this
Monster
Lives inside,
Awakened,
Fully alive.

One thing
About
Monsters
Though,
Is that
There
Are
Many types,
And some
Live
Within us
All.

It's not always
A bad thing,
To fall.

I find it curious the mystery of birds
cawing deep within a morning forest
somewhere in the distance through the mist;
they soar from tree to towering tree
through the faded green and brown
as the entire wood dances to the song
of the soft, lingering breeze.

The temple rises
high above the humid earth.

The sun looking through the playful clouds
colors the terracotta in the golden hue
of God's emotions
long forgotten by the travellers
down on his earthly abode.