On the sheltered surfaces of cliffs
and rock faces, Stone
Age painters redrew the world:
red from ochre
black manganese
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
roast goat
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.
|