[This poem was composed by Fran Siebrits and was published in Toast, 2010]

The white man’s conversation,
Work mostly
Eyes glance at the flames, replacing thoughtful gazes
Meat spits at the grid; ignored
Listening to the kettle calling for attention
The flames glow green, the wind changes direction and the smell of dry grass arrives
Conversation is far too in-depth for this evening
The stars dance, but nobody looks up
A watchful owl in a nearby tree
Blinks disapprovingly at another wasted night …