the thorn tree

we are trekking north from Mweya
to Kikorongo across open savannah
through lion country

the Ruwenzoris rise high blue
before us and parched wind sways
the grasses of the plain

an old man sits under a thorn tree
sewing a rope of buffalo hide
with an acacia thorn

his rope stretches out miles
from him over the savannah
into the western horizon

suddenly crashing wing-roar
and a swarm of glittering bees
led by their queen

meet your new home, my bees!
the bees blanket the thorn tree
and the old man warmly

a maned lion charges
on rippled muscle and with great
bee-roar voice

he pounces on the old man
but the bees are swift, they enfold
the lion who falls

to earth from muscled midair as tinkling white
bone while the old man yanks hard
on his rope of buffalo hide

and our feet through the earth
feel the peak Margherita
miles away in the high blue distance

ripped groaning from all her height
oh the sorrow of it and oh the pain
of waking