The Traveller

Nine more sleeps … yawn … so what?

THE single digits have kicked in; the drum roll’s quickening. Louder.

Just now the pilot will be in its it seat, adjusting its cap for take-off.

Its peak points forward, the same way as its eyes. Sharp!

This baby’s not going to go down on you, oh no.

She’s not going to go splat into the body of Africa somewhere, and spill a cargo of charred corpses.

Oh no. You’re very calm. Air France? Never! Not on the way from Joburg to Athens…

A rising hoot and toot of cars reminds you that it’s morning, so early the birds have yet to peep.

The cock crows when you open the door to your tin office. You think: JUDAS.

Does morning betray night?







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