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Contemporary International Poetry
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issue 9905:17

Peter Horn
MOONLIT NIGHT

The moon drowned in ivy
as the horned owl
was gliding into the nest of the falcon
to steal its egg.

From up here you see the bright lights
of the city sprawling across to the sea.
From up here you see the darkness
hiding between the bright lights forever.

Every night in Kayalitsha
a child dies in the flames,
every night in Crossroads
a knife is tempered in blood.

The dead wear wings of garbage
as they float in the South Easter
and the sand sifts down on them
until they are unrecognisable.

The splintered streetlamps
continued to send signals
across the length of University Avenue:
"S.O.S." but nobody saves any souls.