Late August Poem by Gert Strydom

There’s a chilly wind blowing this morning,
the black-collard barbet
flies into my study’s window
as if it can go right through it,
the big brown Labrador jumps
with locking jaws
trying to snatch it from the air,
there’s menace creeping into the morning,
menace coming from somewhere,

both dogs jump and try
to snap the postman’s hand in two,
while he is putting letters
in the mailbox,

last night the police
made a ruckus at two in the morning,
at the neighbours across the street,
hooted the neighbourhood awake
and as a mistake
was at the wrong address

and when I got back to bed,
I thought that I had heard something
and in t-shirt and shorts
went to investigate
with a shotgun in my hands
but it was only the wind
rustling through the trees,
blowing as it did
from the beginning of time.

This morning felt like Monday,
as if going to work
after a weekend
brought the responsibilities of living
back to me again.