Rock Art

The Amathole are much older than man,
molded when mountains were,
with no need for men to validate them,
wrapped in a blanket
that still reeks of rain and rhythm,
keeping time with what revolves.

Lost in the rolling land,
a fractured footnote to rising rock,
the artist cries,
‘I have seen!’

I have seen the ends of revolution,
even ones flower-strewn and led by love.

I have heard the lilting music,
lusted after the siren’s lyrics,
met an old Pole on his way down
who knew the darkness in each heart,
now tired of righteous martyrs.

What is left is the smell of rain,
and somewhere the faint scent of jasmine
jay-walking across my memory,
reminding me that mountains do not think
their love makes them any better.

TRACE

How I Became The Bomb

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