Harare in the beautiful bloom of the Jacarandas

Soon the first blossoms begin to appear

some where in the Fourth Street* though it's not really clear

(*this photograph is actually Prince Edward St--not too far from Harare's Fourth St.--at sunrise.)

Then tree after tree in the Avenues so neat

Burst into flower in the hot October heat....

(This is the Avenues in Harare, Colquhoun St to be exact.)

...Purple blossoms flutter in glorious array

on the corner close by bunches of colourful flowers...

a sight to remember for everywhere

purple Jacarandas coloured the Summer air.

(Every summer, Harare bursts into a symphony of Jacaranda trees. Absolutely beautiful.

This is also the Avenues area of Harare.)

Tree after tree in the avenue and street

show their deepest purple where white clouds and blossoms meet

(This is Lomagundi Rd. in the Avondale neighborhood.)

The purple blossoms with flats and houses blend

a feast of beauty so colourful and rare

filled with wonder at the City so fair.

(The Avenues neighborhood.)

A high wind and a shower of rain

produce a purple carpet once again

as the blossoms fall to clothe the damp earth...

Oh lovers of beauty raise up your banners

in tribute to the City's early planners

for to them and to nature we are ever in debt

for as magnificent a picture as the gods ever set.

Like the poetry?

It's from a poem called Jacaranda Time by Robert Cornell

written specifically about Harare's Jacaranda trees. The full poem can be found here.

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Hope is a thing with feathers

This lilac breasted roller may possibly be one of my favorite photos taken in southern Africa.

I'm a little shocked about it. I don't really like photographing birds, even bird watching bores me.

But there's something about this photo that I just love.

Also while in Chobe National Park in lovely Botswana on safari, we came across this stunning sable.

Hello, bird!

This stork was hanging out on the banks of the Chobe River.

A bird in flight. . . maybe if I paid more attention, I'd remember birds' names. Maybe.

He made me think of a soldier standing at attention!

 Inspiration for the post's title:

Hope is a Thing with Feathers

Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

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Till my soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.

Oh, be still my heart, why does the entire earth not look like this?

While on a visit to Archipelago Resort in Vilanculos, Mozambique, we visited this uninhabited gem.

with Indian Ocean water so clear, it's unbelievable.

Benguerra Island is just so tranquil, so beautiful.

The foot prints of my snorkeling shoes.

It seemed a pity, even to put my feet in the water,

to leave a mark about the deserted sand.

Inspiration for the blog's title:

The Secret of the Sea

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me

As I gaze upon the sea!

All the old romantic legends,

All my dreams, come back to me.

Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,

Such as gleam in ancient lore;

And the singing of the sailors,

And the answer from the shore!

Most of all, the Spanish ballad

Haunts me oft, and tarries long,

Of the noble Count Arnaldos

And the sailor's mystic song.

Like the long waves on a sea-beach,

Where the sand as silver shines,

With a soft, monotonous cadence,

Flow its unrhymed lyric lines:--

Telling how the Count Arnaldos,

With his hawk upon his hand,

Saw a fair and stately galley,

Steering onward to the land;--

How he heard the ancient helmsman

Chant a song so wild and clear,

That the sailing sea-bird slowly

Poised upon the mast to hear,

Till his soul was full of longing,

And he cried, with impulse strong,--

"Helmsman! for the love of heaven, 

Teach me, too, that wondrous song!"

"Wouldst thou,"--so the helmsman answered,

"Learn the secret of the sea?

Only those who brave its dangers

Comprehend its mystery!"

In each sail that skims the horizon,

In each landward-blowing breeze,

I behold that stately galley,

Hear those mournful melodies;

Till my soul is full of longing

For the secret of the sea,

And the heart of the great ocean

Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

Text of the poem borrowed from here.

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Take My Breath Away

After some fantastic safaris in Save Valley, we climbed decided it was time to watch a Zimbabwe sunset.

We traveled up this path to a kopje and I couldn't help but wonder: would it live up to the stunning Senegalese sunsets?

And then the sun started to descend over the mountains in southeastern Zimbabwe.

And the wildlife seemed to all pause and watch too.

And sometimes the beauty of nature reminds you of poetry.

“You cannot leave Africa,” Africa said.

“It is always with you, There inside your head.

Our rivers run in currents in the swirl

Of your thumbprints; our drumbeats counting out your pulse,

Our coastline, the silhouette of your soul.”

So Africa smiled a little....

Full text of the poem:

                                                        Africa Smiled

                                                                       dedicated to Madiba

                                                                      (Nelson Mandela)

                                                                      Bridget Dore

                                                                       Africa smiled

                                                                       A little

                                                                       When you left.

                                                                      “We know you,”

                                                                       Africa said,

                                                                      “We have seen

                                                                      And watched you,

                                                                      We can learn

                                                                      To live

                                                                      Without you,

                                                                      But

                                                                      We know

                                                                      We needn’t

                                                                      Yet.”

                                                                      And Africa smiled

                                                                      A little

                                                                      When you left.

                                                                      “You cannot

                                                                      Leave Africa,”

                                                                      Africa said.

                                                                      “It is always with you,

                                                                      There inside your head.

                                                                      Our rivers run

                                                                      In currents

                                                                      In the swirl

                                                                      Of your thumbprints;

                                                                      Our drumbeats

                                                                      Counting out your pulse,

                                                                      Our coastline,

                                                                      The silhouette of your soul.”

                                                                      So Africa smiled

                                                                      A little

                                                                      When you left.

                                                                      “We are in you,”

                                                                      Africa said.

                                                                      “You have not

                                                                      Left us,

                                                                      Yet.”

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Oh, come forth into the storm

Leaving Harare for Hwange, we were greeted by this fantastic storm and rainbow.

It reminded me of this amazing rainbow in Wyoming.

To be followed by fantastic blue skies only moments later.

It seemed fitting that upon our return to Harare, storm clouds like I've never seen welcomed us back to the city.

Storm clouds over a lay-by.

This storm was breathtaking--you can see Harare in the distance; by the time we entered the city, it was a torrential downpour.

Most of Zimbabwe's cities have Independence markers on their outskirts.  This is Bulawayo's.

Ahh, Africa, where trucks are loaded with more lettuce than you've ever seen before.

Inspiration for this post's title:

A Line-Storm Song

Robert Frost

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod. 

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain. 

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Sapphire sea the sun sails like a golden galleon

The Cherry Blossom in harbor in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, United States

The twilight of the day was breathtaking with the boats and water of Old Town's harbor.

The harbor.

The Cherry Blossom overlooking more of the harbor and boats.

The Potomac River.

The path next to Founder's Park and the Potomac River in Old Town.

This series of photos and all the fantastic memories I have of Old Town Alexandria

reminded me of this poem--the inspiration for the post's title:

A Day of Sunshine

                                                                                                 O gift of God! O perfect day:

                                                                                                  Whereon shall no man work, but play;

                                                                                                  Whereon it is enough for me,

                                                                                                   Not to be doing, but to be!

                                                                                                   Through ever fiber of my brain,

                                                                                                   Through every nerve, through every vein,

                                                                                                   I feel the electric thrill, the touch

                                                                                                   Of life, that seems almost too much.

                                                                                                   I hear the wind among the trees

                                                                                                   Playing celestial symphonies;

                                                                                                   I see the branches downward bent,

                                                                                                   Like keys of some great instrument.

                                                                                                   And over me unrolls on high

                                                                                                   The splendid scenery of the sky,

                                                                                                   Where through a sapphire sea the sun

                                                                                                   Sails like a golden galleon,

                                                                                                   Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,

                                                                                                   Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,

                                                                                                   Whose steep sierra far uplifts

                                                                                                   Its craggy summits white with drifts.

                                                                                                   Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms

                                                                                                   The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!

                                                                                                   Blow, winds! and bend within my reach

                                                                                                   The fiery blossoms of the peach!

                                                                                                   O Life and Love! O happy throng

                                                                                                   Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!

                                                                                                   O heart of man! canst thou not be

                                                                                                   Blithe as the air, and as free?

                                                                                                   Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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