POETRY                                                                                               (Copyright - Pierre du Toit)
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                                      Dinner
      

                                              Ivory white domes gleam dimly
                                      in the darting of the candles
                                      which from sockets spill our shadows
                                      covering partly, pale grey faces
                                      where the light is circling
                                      thinly round the caves which mark our skulls

                                      we laugh,
                                      our teeth in ashen bone a mime
                                      of life, we reach
                                      for softness, with a gentle touch
                                      we seek to hide
                                      the hardness

                                      and when they leave,
                                      their angled lines still shimmering in the night
                                      I sit, next to dried out ashtray flowers
                                      on a grave of unborn death,
                                      and ponder still-born futures where we'd all
                                      be skin and flesh

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