Sieve

The drive - they have no such posh word in Italian the neighbour says - its just a 'strada'. The drive is being transformed by ridiculous labour. The two of us become navvies for the while before the scorching sun and green-eyed horseflies force us to retreat to cool water and colder beer.

Sieving gravel again and again. Removing tons of dusty earth. The remains of many autumn's leavings. Accumulation and compaction. Nature reclaiming her own.

I thought of Robbin Island. The battering sun. The cold South Atlantic and the howling Cape Doctor sweeping through the stoneyard and the cells. The men in short-trousered prison garb being ground to dust and chippings.

Amandla.

As we sipped cold beer and called our own short hours.