Fantasy at Sundown

Reclining here under this tranquil shade,
I hear the symphonic sounds of twittering guitars.
Beneath the Jazz and brass
of Joe De Graft.

And as if in a dream,
I see the Child of two worlds
as he sits quietly there.
The meditative image of Mugo Gatheru.
And reading Cyprian Ekwensi`s
Burning grass,
I’m thrilled into such a high.
And somewhere I know, somewhere,
Doris Lessing will be saying, hear.
The Grass is singing.

I think of the fleeting euphoria of flight and dream,
such ecstasy, but such brief bliss.
Then coming down from a high,
life turns so low.
And Martin Owusu, he knows it,
that feeling of icy unease that follows
The Sudden.
Ah, and what would I do without poetry,
when like Ayi Kwei Armah I know,
The Beautyful ones are not yet born.

And here transfixed and spellbound I lie.
But when at last this fantasy fades,
and the scattered scraps of my senses,
fall down down, gently gently,
into lines of half sensible poems,
and this dizziness lets go of my head.
Soon the craving comes again,
the longing for that feeling of worriless oblivion.
And amidst my indecision,
with hand half reaching out
and half hesitating.
I shall hear the whisperings in the half darkness.
Of Robert Serumaga, urging me,
Return to the shadows.