By Roger G McDonald
Nature’s Church
Now, picture dusk. Night stalks the nervous bush.
He takes us to a waterhole ten miles
further into nowhere. An eerie hush
drums in our ears. We’re anxious metrophiles.
It’s nature’s church, and she commands the aisles.
A good stone’s throw separates the water
from shapes that seem to infiltrate the slope.
‘We should be in the car,’ suggests a daughter.
Some think this is their final horror-scope.
None notes the absence of the antelope.
(to be continued)
