Against the yellow base,

Ashy brown peaks, lined and rugged,

Trees and shrubs, shades of brown, grey, green,

Form lines, patches, swirls –

Crowding, spreading, organizing according to the lie of the land,

The flow of the wind, the gathering of sediments,

Shapes of the landscape.

.

I’m searching for clues; how do people live here?

Human habitation appears out of place,

Toys in a giant’s sandpit,

Insignificance against colossal nature,

And in all the wrong colours.

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Verdant green clings to a golf course near a town,

Fraying at the edges.

Low buildings blink beady eyes at the sun.

The watchful sun, just overhead

In the blue, blue sky.

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Colours shift with the movement of the sun,

Dawn and dusk are landscaper artists.

Shade and shadow add detail.

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Bands of bare rock, outcrops, sand with tufts of grey,

On and on. 

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Temperature shifts, beating sun, sandblasting wind, 

These are the powers, the forces;

Water only trails long delicate fingers

In the low places of the landscape.

Nothing worn soft and smooth, 

Everything blasted, harsh and sharp.

No glimmer of moisture, but the glitter of fresh exposed rock.

Roots forcing their way through crevices,

Seeking hidden sources, survival forces.  

.

Peaks become gradually more scattered,

Lonely against the flat dryness, 

Eventually the horizon becomes a dark line,

Mountains, perhaps. Maybe once there was water here, 

Where a giant dug warm toes in moist sand,

and dumped piles of rocks as she hurried home. 

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Driving from Windhoek

October 2020