There the river is bridged, <br />meandering place to place is bounded, <br />a road cuts right across the mountain’s back <br />and when in the evening you find a tired traveller <br /> <br />he has stopped at a place <br />where the sea to the furthest horizon <br />stretches to the heaven <br />and there are lorries crawling up the hill, <br /> <br />the town lies beneath sparkling like stars <br />with lights everywhere shining <br />where people from near and far <br />at times find a resting place <br /> <br />even the old black man riding past on his bicycle, <br />or the braggart that cuts through the mountain pass with his grand car. <br /> <br />[Reference: “hier breek die dorp die pad se rug” (here the town breaks the road’s back) by fanie olivier.]<br /><br />Gert Strydom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/there-the-river-is-bridged-in-answer-to-fanie-olivier/
