Ode to Bulawayo

There goes another wicket,
in haste they walk!

I stroll in taste,
Bulawayo’s Queen in my arms,
the soft whisper from
the swaying ol' timers,
the masters,
the witnesses,
the faithfuls beyond the 
east frame of a green canvas,
an oval mirror for men;
their leaves speak of old glory,
of war and peace,
revolutions and blood,
of solutions and dread,
and of love… 

… How will I forget love?
In the promised land
a few Safaris away,
I hunt and shunt
in a game I always lose;
like my dear hosts
who’re lost at home… 
home bitter home!