Of poet

Scatter me ideas like wild pollen,

Litter me ideas like star fallen,

But prop me thoughts still,

Till a timeless time pollinate.

Share me out like a pricey meal,

But steal me not from a haven,

Neither let the ugly raven peck me,

But check me into annals of the greats.

And when this lost generation asks,

Spread me out on winey stellar casks,

Seat self on sacks of golden barley,

And tell them of me ideas, till dusk.

Of a pigeon that yapped lyrics,

Yarned in pubs, market places and chapels,

That burned like bushfire in savannah,

From heavenly highlands to serene shores.

For now, for the peace of me pen,

Scatter me far and wide like a sower,

But litter me not on rocks or thorns,

Blowing horns at the eerie African dawns

 Copyright @ Hillary Wachinga, 2016