The rain pelts down on the dusty Highveld,
Plumes of dust dispersing under heavy drops of liquid sunshine.
The golden grass hungrily reaches towards the leaden, rolling sky,
And rustles and sings with the wind.
Along the steaming tarmac, a barefoot man walks,
He guides his goats in the downpour,
Bleating in the direction of home.
A BMW glides past the man,
A box of naartjies in the boot,
Children’s fingers sticky with koeksister syrup.
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