The Bushfeld

The leaves turn brown, as the days cool down.
Rain has gone for the season, that is the reason.
Grass seeds are dropping, tree seedpods are popping.
The cool of the dawn, an ewe feeding her fawn.

The sun breaches the crest, in the soft morning mist.
The orange rays of light, are a very beautiful sight.
Feed the fire embers you toil, fresh pot of coffee to boil.
All sit round the warm fire, as the sun rises higher.

Prepare for a walk, some wild animal to stalk.
Mind the spider web, with dew on it's thread.
Mist lifts from the hollow, as fresh tracks you follow.
Shoes are all damp, as through the veld you stamp.

Close up as can be, you hide by a tree.
Sit and study it a while, the joy making you smile.
The antelope holds it's pose, you are watching it's nose.
Wind direction is right, prevent making it take flight.

The sun is high up now, there is sweat on your brow.
With care you tread, there is game up ahead.
Creeping forward you go, a heard of buffalo.
The bovine smell is strong, don't get it wrong.

You know the veld rule, don't be a fool.
The snap of a twig, and you could be dead.
The bull is smelling the air, he could know you're there.
He is looking around, don't make a sound.

As you stroll back to camp, you have the lord to thank.
For this wonderful land, in which you can stand.
In this bushveld a while, away from the normal life style.
To relax in the peace, and the stress to release.

Written by Pete Barlow 25/06/2000
Email : Pete Barlow