The Mandela Robe Poem by Adrian Flett

The monster sloth inexorably creeps
though deflected, it never sleeps
only slows, then goes, leaving a trail
an all-enveloping mantle of iron mail.

The mantle is everywhere and in the van,
the white-rooted sloth-like man.
Moving forward slowly, robe over shoulder
At times waiting patiently, as a soldier.

Up in the high ramparts of the stone tomb
they stand arrogant, unrepentant as clouds loom.
Afraid they look down on the mantle cloud
black, enveloping, spreading mantle shroud.

The mantle corners the bearded lord
black-suited, silver-tied prig, whose firm jawed
granite dogma would engulf,
with harsh unforgiving Calvinistic love.

The crammed train chugs on towards Pretoria
bearing him over carcasses of political dogma.
As the boy looks out over fresh burial mounds
all neatly partitioned, colour grouped ground.

Somewhere is one still in the special womb.
As she trudges forward to give birth to whom?
Everywhere on the Ulundi Mundi road
they tell of a boy who'll wear the Mandela robe.

At times a little boy is the sloth.
running through the veld on bare feet of both
ideas, smiling at the strength of Africa's call,
smiling at the mantle covering all.

Everywhere there is a little boy who waits
for his anointing and his country's fate
to come. Look not for man's power probe
it's a child who will wear the Mandela robe.

While the civet slinks the sacred ibis stand and wait
for the news the hadeda's call will relate.
"Little boy beside the road
one day, will you wear the Mandela robe? "


14.08.1989