Late afternoon. The shadows lengthen
but the angry African sun still glares
on Mbombo's troop taking their ease
among the wisteria's fluttering leaves
and blossom-laden branches.
Mbombo signals pleasure
with half-closed eyes and little ears drawn back
looking as amiable as a baboon can -
not noticeably benign, perhaps,
except to others of his species.
With languid grace he plucks a spray
of delicate purple flowers -
an offering for his beloved -
she of the deep-set golden eyes
and attractively blushing rump.
No other suitors venture near
the chosen of Mbombo the King
for all have seen his savage fangs
and keeping a respectful distance
devour lush blooms in purple-scented shade.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Mbombo by Sheila Spargo )
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