Child_ran

For Silindile

The naked child-ran

her freshly shaven head.

Cutting the air

with despaired flair.

Dropped on her tiny fingers

by the burning cold;

of a midwinters’

promising,

summer-rain, wind.

Her smile brushing

away the salt

remaining,

from her tears.

Down the street

of once in a while

colours of new Cris-mas clothes

Daddy’s home, she shouts.