the cold

it is four in the morning
my coffee cup cold
i fed the coal fire
it is glowing red gold

the world still asleep
as the wind whistles by
i opened the door
not a star in the sky

though no snowflakes are falling
the ground is still white
i could go back to bed
or perhaps i should write

if i put pen to paper
to record how i feel
will this act of indulgence
make it any more real

the writer is restless
the mind searching still
reaching for lost thoughts
to leak frrom the quill

immortal, expansive
will the dark of the night
call forth the words
which lie hidden in light

Copyright © 2013 by Eryll Oellermann

where is home ...

i flew out to south africa for pj and gereth's wedding.

i flew home to the land where i was born, the place of the always familiar. my land where the high blue sky of day and the deep dark of star clad night embraces my soul with a fierce ownership. the voice of africa fall gentle on ears grown accustomed to hearing the speech of a far country.
africa, my homeland, my country.
the land in which i was conceived and grew, where i first learnt to love, where my children were born and thrived and ventured into adulthood.
my land, where i recognise the creatures of the air and the earth, i breathe familiar the scent of africa and my eyes read the weather in the african sky.

africa, as comforting as the arms of a beloved mother, always there, always waiting for the return of the prodigal.