The Fluency of Drought

I

They came with thirst in their bark—
blue gums scorched from fire,
pines from northern fog.
A wood of strangers took root.

The earth let them in—
not with guest-bread, but with rain.
Now their names
cling to the grain of the land.

Fynbos withers in their shade—
it gathers at the earth’s flat edge,
drinks what the wind forgets.

Since their arrival,
each summer ends
with dams mouthing dust—
what left does not return.

II

The ships brought no answers—
only an ache older than language.

Roots curled downward,
searching for old rain—
but found only stone.
Still, they held,
not knowing
if the stone was listening.

I live between these departures—
where I stand seed and ash drift apart,
half belonging
to another shore.

What the sea leaves behind
becomes driftwood—
each word
with nowhere to land.

III

The vessels closed their mouths.
Water turned to rumour.

Some learned to speak dust.
Others—like moss, green and unseen—
bowed, holding the underneath
of unsaid things.

The surrounding drought shaped me.
I learned to speak
through patient silence.

Still,
I mouth rain in sleep—
rivers I know only 
by thirst.

Matthew Aberdein

Matthew Aberdein is a South African poet whose work explores myth, memory, and spiritual rupture across landscapes marked by exile, shame, and sacred encounter. Living between Berlin and the Cape, his writing draws on animist imagery, postcolonial tension, and ritual intimacy. His poems often unfold as thresholds—acts of refusal, offering, or return—blurring prayer and transgression.

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash