Witbank Transvaal
by Terry Brix

    Ochre here, everywhere red striped with dark Leprechaun green,

    As though Irish giants came to the Transvaal and skinned their knees.

    The earth colored dried blood congealed red,

    As if someone painted it on a hemotologist's slide.

    I peer down from above through the microscope of distance,

    Looking for anemia or hemophilia, the kind that progress makes.

    Beneath the red and green knits, stitched together with roads,

    Like a carnivore, I smell the real deep blood, black hidden.

    The coal spurts out from underground like a wounded hemophiliac,

    Yet the rest of the country waits for the hot Transvaal aphrodisiac.

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