A Winter Sun
Misted glow, drifting, curling, sweeping,
Glass'd water, gentle lap, faded depth out to sea.
Moments hold, silence stays, a seagull skates the glass.
A shingle crunch, footstep breaks, thoughts brought back, to real.
Golden glow, streaks and flows, the mist a swirling mass.
Skimmers skim, flocked Cormorant rush, glass ripples sweep,
The Winter sun, holds my thoughts, in silence on a distant shore.
© William Mataba 2006
Born to be wild.
It’s that feeling in the breeze,
That thrill as the gale howls unstoppable through a copse.
It’s that feeling when the wheat rolls in unison,
Or when the cloud cover breaks to reveal an icy blue sky.
It’s that moment when on arriving at the peak,
An eye scans the panorama reaching to a blue horizon.
It’s the touch that crawls through the toes,
When naked feet allow the sands of a rushing ocean to slide unhindered.
It’s that sense of loneliness,
That sense when concrete suffocates the soul in a shroud of emptiness,
When man made monstrosities lie silent and dormant above the screaming masses.
It’s that sense of infinite continuum,
That sense when the sound of the sea, rumbles endless in repetitive variations.
It is that moment when there is a need to reach out,
A need to reach and understand,
We are but of unified purpose,
We are but children of the same universe,
We are but reflections of the life surrounding us.
We are but a hidden wilderness,
A wilderness shaped in the myriad of complexity.
We are born to be wild,
We are controlled only by the facades of human civilized hypocrisy,
Controlled only by the genes of repetitive mutations.
And yet it is when,
It is when we are set free,
Set free to survive and to experience the need to touch outside our world.
It is then we realize, we realize we are born to be wild.
William Mataba 2012