Nelson Mandela; A Sanguine Farewell Poem by Frank Meintjies

during the week nelson mandela died
death lost its sting

a small yellow bird came
each morning
to knock, with its beak, against my window pane

early, gently, like drizzle, like sunset, like green of a hill, like an open hand's touch
soft as new skin over a wound
gentle as the kora
vibrating in the ear

during the week that soul left body
it rained, extensively, intensively
convincingly
soggy fields, waterlogged lawns, drenched thatch, muddy pools;
slippery pathways
urban bodies enduring change &
long-walkers to rural stores
cooled
cooled down

the sky's flat canopy
painted ash-grey

i think: we let them go, a part of them go
a part of us go

there was a time, a phase

a novel rich in idiom, culture and place; a lilting story
& tugging of the ordinary
a song
from deep within the soul
a sweeping gaze across so many oceans, so many hills

i let it go, i hold on

across the mbashe river
animals, between grazing
stand still for long periods
looking this way

in pleats of their clothing
the chiefs & indunas
carry
the dust
from the nearby villages
in brow-lines, the stories
that go back a long way

the rain, a gift
from those who went before
a gift for us, for those who remain; a gift
from
hintsa, makana, autshumao, the first of the first...

the rain is for the farmers
for the freedom-fighters that died
for those who shed hope
and those who, with hot brows & dry lips
blow on waning coals

on the plains
of this heart, momentarily
there is abundance; favour and grace sprout
on this heart, rain-fingers
write
deep tracks in the sand

Frank Meintjies
(20 Dec 2013)