Poem for Loung, #02 Which little bird here is a dragon? And which little bird breaths out fire Which little bird can fly up so high, to turn the clouds into flames  Is it this little bird, here at the oak trees foot sitting only quiet, though the fire burns inside her who is this little bird, tiny but mighty is it this  little bird who won't stay quiet is it this little Loung who will breath and breath flamestill her wings catch a light  Yes it's this little bird, whose words are the wings

A  poem for Sindiwe (working draft) Lay me on the back of your wings on the arch of your spine the next time you go up flying on the back of your wings across the sea and open fields  to distant places I so long to see Fly with me please on the back of your wings, so I too may see all the things you have seen, you make me believe. Lay me on the back of your wings, small but so wide you reach up so high, to swim through sky blue waters spin me round smiling, make pirouettes and make missiles,

A baby bird for a drop of rain  And a baby bird hides from the moon's blue rays A baby bird veils the pretty sounds she used to make and a river wells up wide, when the tears all fall inside The wind puts her finger on her lip, so soft a sound comes out, it is a running and sprinting hushhhhhhhhhhhhh hushhhhhh says the wind, for a soldiers passing by  and the baby bird hides, oh the baby bird is hiding and doesn't even make a sound But the baby bird grows in buttressed healing