Brooke Forbes

On a date farm 80ks out of Mparntwe,

I’m on adventure of a different kind,

Through beats and moonlit dancing,

Through date palms high and shadows deep,

Through collective movements that make a chosen tribe, 

I’m edging towards a type of freedom.

The gathering is modest but the souls are connecting, 

Bobbing in unison to Honky Tonk and African beats, 

Tributes to Dolly and songs not yet before sung. 

The ever-present moon guides us together, 

A low-lit white light,

Bouncing off frizzy hairdos and leather jackets, 

Keeping pace with an eternal rhythm. 

Then suddenly,

A bonfire is birthed. 

Fire from trunks and branches, dried with care, dismantled from their rooted earth.

And as the blaze laps up into the sky,

I think about how the bright light of fire doesn’t overpower the moon,

This earth-bound signalling,

This gesture to the moon gods.

And instead of this fire signalling upheaval it signals something more –

as people gather – 

as people dance – 

as people tell stories of pollination and growth, new life and blossoming creations –

there’s a semiotic balance, here, amongst

the date palms –

and it echoes between earth and moon and back again.