Black Francolin Calling
There's the Black Francolin calling
Standing proud on the edge of gnarled vines
While around him the vineyards are falling
No longer in neat tended lines
Ancient vines lie in bleak disarray
Rust red earth is torn up, trucked away
Black Francolin's mournfully crying
Laments with no words and no rhymes
Leaves, grieves for his nest where the vines
Reach torn limbs skyward, denying
A home for the next of his line.
The concrete is coming, the houses
Huge hotels for the tourists and shops
Selling knick knacks and bright summer blouses
Still the hot summer sun at noon drowses
When the Francolin's calling
Just stops.