The Blue Book


Words wash away so easily,
unlike waves,
which have always been
coming back,
just in time
to tell of us few wayfarers,
appointed as a middle people
by the book,
our initials on every page,
signed and sealed
so long ago now;
who have sung through
all our darkest ages,
waiting as warriors must,
for your own will
to return.

Sounds slide from the body,
unlike silence,
which has always been here,
long before we learnt to look
between the beats,
and saw with terror
a boundless ocean;
and watched with wonder
ten thousand sunsets;
and sang our love
for each and every one;
and played with joy
along that golden shore,
lost in stories of pansy shells -
angels marked by god
who once were urchins.

Turned blue at last,
indebted, directed, drowning
in the mercy of the deep.

Sunk and still scribbling
in this lengthening light.


Mayibuye, iAfrika!