When we were small children
When we were small children
about five and four
my dad had died
of cancer
and I and my brother
had to stay during the day
with the Von Hörsten’s
when my mother drove away to work.
Uncle Hendrik was a farmer,
but also with his brother Fritz
wrote story books
and his string of children
who was much older
and bigger than us
(four boys and two girls)
kept us busy
since boys had to stay out of the house.
So it went that we
rode horses unsaddled,
tread on silage
and the second oldest Gardiël
was always on our case,
had put us on donkeys
and the lot of them laughed
while the animals run moody
into rocks
and my brother fell
and got some bruises and cuts.
One day the cornfield
was cut stubble high
to get feed for the cattle
and the breeding bull Kittennel
(a black and malicious animal)
were chased into the crush-pen
and Gardiël forced us on that bull
before he chased it
with a horse
into the cornfield.
On the other side of the field
beyond the border wire
his brothers waved a red flag
up and down and up and down
and Kittennel snored though his nose,
in anger shook his body,
kicked up dust
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poem by Gert Strydom
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