African Evening By The Fireside
When from behind the mountain peaks the moon glides outand the soft white disc probes into the inky country darkness.
When the shadows lengthen and wild animals start to roam about,
the children of the village, making sure of no hidden surprises
that may lurk in the dark shadows cast by the trees and many huts,
with hearts thumping, their faces wearing sweet little smiles,
all tread cautiously and carefully on the earth's uneven crust
to grandma's hut for one of those story telling times.
In the smoke filled interior they sit still, not playing any games.
They gather around the fire, shoving, pulling and squabbling,tossing small dry twigs into the fire to keep alive the dying dancing flames,
coaxing the old lady to tell them a story that is exciting.
As always, they brace themselves for the inevitable scary tales
as the old 'queen' clears her throat and begins her humming.
Her crackling voice rises up above the din of distant drums,
captivating her audience, aiming for the already pounding hearts,
filling them with fear as tune after sinister tune she hums,
bringing chills and goose bumps to the bundled warm bodies,
drawing complete silence as the kids think of all their follies
and what awaits them in the dark of the night
if they don't own up or else, she warns them, they will see no light.
In the end, they file out in two's and three's into the light rain,
having vowed vehemently they will never be bad again.
They rush and stumble to their small huts, now dimly lit,
wanting to bury themselves uder their threadbare bedding,
believing it a barrier from any evil spirit,
never to awaken till the sound of the rooster's crowing
when they slowly peek out and, seeing the light,
cast aside the fears of last night.
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.