The
four-colour flag
is a gun
i hear
it, rat-a-tat tat
in the ear's
dark canal
commas,
full stops and deadly colons
ending in
a fitful pause
... is a
dog
on the leash
tugged by
shrouded figures -
benzine,
spyker, mostert -
their
bare hands & bared teeth
gouged
air
from our
chests
... is a yellow
kwela-kwela
metallically
cold
to the
touch; in the
wire-caged
part
my brain
rolls around
as wheels
slew
from caledon
square to torture room to death farm to stick-figure appearance
in white
man's court
the four-colour
flag
tortured
the confessions:
the first
nation is extinct
plunder
was a walkover
good
neighbours and bantustan lords welcome 'pass books' & high walls
&
baaskap flowers naturally, amid veldblossoms, grape-stalks, mountain bush, cacti,
wild grasses & woodland
The new
flag
is a
too-long road
that's
sun-baked, potholed, soaked
and
gasping with sweat
twisted
in the knots
of so
many winds
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