“Driftwood”

Land of a thousand folds!

A family of dark shapes

follow my thoughts

crashcurling, swirling

through my imagination.

Surfing the foaming waves,

duckdiving and

driving me onwards:

the sea alive with

a thousand sounds

unfathomable.

Land of The Fish and Kei,

of Tambo and Tata,

of Nxele and Nongquawuse,

of cattle and hardship,

poverty and beauty.

Land of the sunset

over Cefane and Kwelera,

pastel rivers

open to the sea.

I flow with you

into the great blue.

Not the land of my people,

but a land I belong in

belong with

belong on

belong to.

There by the sunset

and the jagged driftwood,

standing defiantly with

the river and blue tide.

Nature’s iimbongi,

praising this land.

Land of the past and present

which cling to blanched wood,

neither black

nor white.

Standing against changing tides,

gathering memory and hope

like the millions of grains

which dance up to it

searching for warmth,

huddling against the grey wood

stripped of its protective bark.

O! To be like that wood!

Simple and unassuming

it stands in a shallow lagoon

and whispers its story

to all who would but listen

before the tide turns

and the earth rises to night,

flooding the lagoon,

stealing the colours,

disguising the folds.

Leaving a blank page.

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