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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “Listening Post”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
Sea-glass morning loosens from the koppie, a soft green bruise of light rinsing the gullies. Last night’s drizzle still threads the air— wet dust breathing like a stable animal. A windpump ticks somewhere off to the left, rust making a small, faithful music. Hadedas argue the sky open, then lift; their wings scissor the damp like careful barbers. Where the slope breaks, red stones sweat, each one a warm coin pressed back into the palm. Ants ferry gleam to their doorways, and the scent—earth after rain—speaks in isi-whatever of soil and sugar. Waiting has its own posture: thorn trees cant a few degrees, spines lit with a shy shine, as though tuning themselves to a band we forgot. Porcupine quills found last winter stand in the fence like radio masts. I touch one; the veld hums. It is not quite a song, more a memory unbuttoning its throat. Across the valley, the tracks silver up, two lines sliding past each other, quiet as prayer. Somewhere a bakkie coughs, a dog answers, and a story older than us clears its static. By the time the sun lifts clean from the rock, everything leans in—grass, stone, my breath— and the thorn trees keep listening, patient, as if what’s returning has already turned the corner.
Alternative version
Sea-glass dawn lifts over the koppie, light spilling like river silt into the valleys. A veil of fine rain hangs, threaded with the scent of warm earth. The thorn trees bend slightly, as if listening for something old returning. Guinea fowl flicker through scrub, half-shadow, half-sound. Stone holds the night's cool in its back. A weaver’s call rises, drops — a soft stitch through the hush. Nothing hurries. Even the wind takes its time, curling around termite mounds and the rusted fence line. Here, morning unfolds like a calmed hand — not grasping, only opening.
Lyrics
Sea-glass light slips off the koppie, kop-ee. Wet dust breathes, a stable animal. Windpump ticks left, small rust music. Hadedas, hah-dee-dahs, argue, then lift. Wings cut the damp like barbers. Porcupine quills stand like radio masts. I touch one, the veld hums. Not quite a song, almost a name. Come in, come in, clear. We are still here. Red stones sweat, warm coins in my palm. Ants ferry shine to small doors. Earth after rain says soil and sugar. Across the valley, tracks silver up. Two lines slide quiet as prayer. A bakkie coughs, a dog answers. Waiting learns a posture, slight lean. Thorn trees tilt a few degrees. Spines catch shy shine, they tune. Come in, come in, clear. We are still here. Old story clears its static. We lean in and answer. Come in, come in, clear. We are still here.
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