Bolt

by Annette Snyckers

On summer afternoons
when flies were lazy
and the hours lame,
I was supposed to lie down,
rest in my room —
when my mother took a nap;
all I wanted was out.

In the passage
creaking floorboards
lay waiting
to snap at my heels,
but I held my breath,
stepped over them,
and only exhaled
when I reached
the dining room.

Out, out,
over the fence
into the veld —
crushed grass
and khaki bush,
turtle dove
and hoepoe,

sun
budding my wings.

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