Mary Lynn Richardson
They rise, those hills, like the spiny back of a giant reptile. An iguana, surely. For as the sun moves over them, those lizard spines also flash azure green and purple like a heap of precious stones, or like a pane cut from an old church window.
If I walked right up to them, if I saw their feet of clay, would they too fade and grow pale? Would all colour die out of them in one long sigh? Would they -- like the iguana you once shot -- also become grey and dull like a lump of concrete?
Is it those forty miles from Kiambu to Karen, those forty years between your face and mine, that keep the live impetuous blood pulsating in the Ngong Hills for me? If I reach them, will the flame be put out? Will their soul fly? Will they too be dead as a sandbag?Or could I then simply call you Tanne? 6
© M.L. Richardson,1994
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