On the sheltered surfaces of cliffs
and rock faces, Stone
Age painters redrew the world:
red from ochre
white from the droppings of birds
and splashes of brown at intervals
blooming like prehistoric roses, shades
layered into relief by
the ancient hands.
There is a secret symbol there, I feel,
and snap pictures madly.
The Irangi have grabbed my camera
promising it back for fifty shillings.
A suitable goat is needed to appease the gods.
While the elders dine happily on
I contemplate the paintings
and the gouts of blood
they have thrown between the figures.
There is a secret symbol here, I feel,
snapping pictures madly.