THE VINE IN THE VILLAGE The vine, the vine, how it runs,
A green river
Winding down the hillside
Thickening with light.

The village is there,
With the children and their mothers,
And the vine is their story.
They have played and talked
Under its shade
Until it is part of them.

Their laughter rises.
Like birds lifting from the leaves,
Seeking the sun.
Yet the vine still holds
Their secrets,
Leaves falling softly.

• Bessie Head