Archive for December, 2013


Something I wrote on the day of the funeral.


Did you see it?
The little goat with its stubborn pluck
Tugging at the knots of hillside grass outside your door?

Did you listen to it?
The chatter of the ruffled sparrow
In the last weak sun on the rusted tin roof?

Did you hear it?
The raucous cutlery in the kitchen
As chickens cooked on crackling thorn wood?

Did you stand here?
In this brown mud amidst the striving shoots
And feel your soles pulled flat, stick and then lift?

Did you smell it?
The rain welling in limp grey clouds
Threatening the turquoise huts and the dusty roads?

Did you sense it?
A nation free, loud and rude
Speaking its ever-changing mind ?

You cannot answer now, so I will report.
The goat paused and then sought fresh shoots.
The sparrow stopped then chattered and fussed.
The pot went cold then the flames lit once more.
The brown mud dried and then it softened.
The clouds held back their tears, there were enough on earth.
And the voices rose once more
Speaking the coarse, rough language of freedom.

On the day you were buried.


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