Feet in the air and coke in hand,
He's glued to the box - drinking in some TV show.
Or, while
Sprawled in a chair and clamped on a keyboard
Hammers the score for
Some thunderous, murderous computer game.

Then, when
Released from the city - flies to explore
This vast African land of ours.

Snorkeling
Through startled, garish fish
In the warm waters of Ponta Do Ouro.
Floating, out in
The open Indian Ocean
Waiting, willing the dolphins
Closer to him.
Walking
Pack on back, down the wilderness trail,
Across the Umfolosi,
There, where
No road runs nor one building stands.
Following
Spoor, down by the river
As a dull, red African sun rises.
Baking
Bush bread. At our Leopard Mountain camp
In a hole, which he had dug, by the fire.
Making
Strong grass rope. Using it
To build a shelter, then sleeping
In it, high on the mountain
Where the blesbok roam.

All this - and more
Is my son, Carl.

As he grows towards
The strong, straight young man
Which he will be, I pray
The wilderness life which he yearns for
Will find him, fill him, enfold
His wild, open soul
In it's
Wild, open African spaces.