Lekker Brekker

Time, like an ever-rolling stream,

Bears all its sons away;

They fly forgotten, as a dream

Dies at the opening day.

—Isaac Watts (1719)

“Duty is truth, truth duty”—

Keats, was it, fashioned that ideal?

What's there to add—there's now no more,

For speech lies gagging on the floor:

Belle Époque's clutch of truths foreseen,

Hills of war "to end war" in sight,

That journey "to the end of night"?

Tiring of this nightmare dream,

What else, one wonders, could we ask,

Spread out upon our lekker beach to bask

With weapons that might safely suit?

Your quiver’s empty—but that bow is cute!

This is the breakfast of the few,

The lucky class who thought we knew:

A picnic from technology's hamper

That serves to make us privileged scamper.

Note: South Africans will understand the title of this poem—it means "nice [tasty, delicious] breakfast."

Saturday, May 31, 2025