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The Zulu Girl
The Zulu Girl When in the sun the hot red acres smoulder Down where the sweating gang its labour plies A girl flings down her hoe, and from her shoulder Unslings her child tormented by flies.
She takes him to a ring of shadow pooled By the thorn-tree: purpled with the blood of ticks, While her sharp nails, in slow caresses ruled Prowl through his hair with sharp electric clicks.
His sleepy mouth, plugged by the heavy nipple, Tugs like a puppy, grunting as he feels; Through his frail nerves her own deep languor’s ripple Like a broad river sighing through the reeds.
Yet in that drowsy stream his flesh imbibes And old unquenched, unsmotherable heat- The curbed ferocity of beaten tribes, The sullen dignity of their defeat.
Her body looms above him like a hill Within whose shade a village lies at rest, Or the first cloud so terrible and still That bears the coming harvest in its breast.
The Zulu Girl When in the sun the hot red fields burn Down where the tired workers do their job A girl drops her hoe, and from her shoulder Takes off her child bothered by flies.
She brings him to a patch of shade gathered By the thorn-tree: stained with the blood of ticks, While her sharp nails, in gentle touches guided Move through his hair with sharp electric sounds.
His sleepy mouth, blocked by the heavy nipple, Pulls like a puppy, grunting as he eats; Through his weak nerves her own deep tiredness flows Like a wide river sighing through the reeds.
Yet in that sleepy stream his flesh absorbs An old unquenched, unextinguishable heat- The controlled anger of defeated tribes, The quiet dignity of their loss.
Her body stands above him like a hill In whose shade a village lies peacefully, Or the first cloud so frightening and still That carries the coming harvest in its womb.