The wind pushes gently seaward
As the crimson ball dies out.
Pa plods home, hoe in hand
Weary spirited, tired out.
The shepherd commands his sheep
Into a village ready to sleep.
Birds fly back to their nest
And here sit I in our nest
In the grove by the stream,
Waiting for Adunni,
Owner of my cowries.
Discussion1 Comment
Beautiful piece