Life’s tapestry is woven not precise:
Some threads will sparkle, some run dark with threat;
Some, like a bee flight, mutable as dice,
Where weight or lightness in veiled patterns met;
Like cuttlefish, some camouflage their shape,
As if a flake has covered part of shine,
So, though before one’s eyes that cloth may drape,
One’s ignorant of all it may define.
I was disinclined to put any humorous slant on the current Wordle. We had news today of the murder, in a suburb of Durban, of a cousin on their father’s side of our local grandchildren. He disturbed intruders at 4 a.m. on Saturday, and was shot. His wife was then threatened at knifepoint while the callous robbers took what they wanted. He was only 35, and leaves two fatherless children, one aged nearly two and the other four.
For most of my life it was highly unusual to know personally, or be related to, anyone who had been murdered. Over latter years, though, I have literally lost count. It is a symptom of an increasingly violent country and world, and of utter ineptness in our local law enforcement. This is not the fault so much of the individual police, who do their best against impossible odds, but of the administration generally from highest levels down.