Sights set on the target through divinely bestowed rangefinders,
Quiver strapped across the chest and resting firmly along the spine,
Ten broadheads with fixed-blade brains rest comfortably in the pocket.
The Archer, placid in demeanour and feather-weight in gait,
Draws ten arrows, one-by-one, by the vanes
And prepares to take aim.
Ten bucks spring upon release,
But the butcher flinches –
Due to inflation,
The game has increased.
Retshepisitswe Makhatha is a poet who writes for fun nowadays. He loves the simple joy of creating images with words since he can’t draw to save his life.