Manambolo Dreaming

    October 19, 2016

    The children say goodbye

    Manambolo Dreaming

    I’m as old as this universe and as young as what you see.

    As the tree fell, it whispered; ‘We may meet again in a thousand years’.

    Madagascar and the scorched shores of the Manambolo. Sparkling men chant fish from the shadows. Children push and peer with wide grins and giggles.

    There are few fish and fewer crocodiles. Smoke rises from a crackling forest while cows that swam from India shuffle dust into the air.

    Four nights of darkness. The moon has gone. A sky bursting with stars and the great sweeping arc of the Milky Way visible to the naked eye. An impossible glowing cloud breaking the galactic hum.

    Dawn brings a cool wind. I wade into the dark water and feel the current. A chameleon. A chameleon. A chameleon. A leaf. They lie together and will now continue their journey together.

    On these cliffs of the great canyon the fires of men cannot reach. Still the tall trees rule over their kingdom. They are just and fair. They only demand the light and water from the sky.

    Lemurs appear; the last of the lemurs perhaps. When the first rafts crunched upon these shores there were millions and this island was a shield of green. A baby peers down.

    In days past the moon ate the sun above mango trees and boys playing on a sandy shore.

    The canyon falls.

    Emerald waters are the signature of the tsingy. The bottom of the sea. Melting. Cascades and sunset.