The Tikoloshe In My Imaginings Poem by Gert Strydom

In my imagination in the primitive rural aria
this midnight comes alive
with something sinister and ominous
that is suddenly full of life
and it's sneaking stealthily all the way to town,
all the way to the house where I am living.

Besides the street lamp's lonely white glow,
outside there is a sudden evil presence
but nothing extraordinary which I do see
and the neighbour's dogs do stop their howling selenologues,
do stop singing their songs to the big yellow full moon,
do snarl and bark viciously as if they want to rip something apart
and some do whine as if they are in the utmost fear
while the fighting tom-cats
do dart away to their hiding places.

Apart from the rooms light, the reading-lamp's friendly yellow rays,
the computer screen's blank white word-processor page
by own volition my fingers type
and through both windows of which the curtains are drawn open
I can see the Seven Sisters, Orion and the Southern Cross peeping in
and the moon has turned red
which my rationality tells me is from the air
that is full of pollution and maybe dust
but yet this late night has somehow become menacing,
as even the sky is reflecting it,

as if something powerful, utterly evil is right here,
as if the dogs and cats do more than just sense it,
as if something is sneaking closer in the deep darkness
that is shadowing disguising it
while it is coming closer still
and the crunch of footfalls in the driveway
almost into the trees,
two burning red-hatred filled utterly evil eyes
I suddenly see and then I do not
while I smell sulphur and my own fear
while the shadows do swallow it again.

I do know there is something very near
that is present as something much more than a mere myth
that has come with its evil intent
and one of the neighbours is returning form a night out
with the lights of his car lighting up the yard
like a spotlight falling on the evil sub-human goat-like demonic thing,
for a mere moment it does stand menacing.

The reading-lamp's friendly yellow rays still burns,
through both windows the Seven Sisters,
Orion and the Southern Cross still do shine
and the moon, which has shifted its position
is much higher and white
and not a sound can be heard from outside
as if everything has gone to sleep,
the computer hums on
and the poem is typed on the screen.