BY MOLANTWA MMELE
My father was a lowly man in the village, he was
A shepherd; he looked after a rancher’s cattle
for a living, he fed them well for many years
yet he never had even pigeon on his name
An ordinary man who spent every penny
he earned to raise his children, today we sat
around the table listening to the testator
In his legal will he states, that
I shall only inherit his greyish winter coat
and his blue leather shoes
They are both old and worn
and this is how my father spent his life.
His best and worst days were grey and blue
And I’m afraid to dress in my father’s tears
BY NOAH SWINNEY
In the nineteen eighties
father was conscripted
and geared up in green,
before the bans were lifted.
I asked, just a child,
“how come you were an army guy,
and now you’re just a normal guy?”
and rolled my car at whiles.
BY CHARIKA SWANEPOEL
It is undoubtedly the same man,
the boy become more himself,
less planned, outlined, and designed for the scene and sincerer.
His eyes are darker, heavier, and wise with destiny.
His hair is less and less defined, it flows from his face
and gives a different meaning to the now unturned face.
The buoyant boychild Botticelli, no longer throttled in gold,
is grown into a man, robed, slightly rugged, but ready.
Behind him no longer some other man of note
but full strokes, merged with the whole
and a rich green scrawl of a tree.
BY SHIRLEY MARAIS
jackals call on the early-morning air
along the jukskei
just shy of lonehill
and in the blue distance
lies the magaliesberg
its prehistoric rocks
sheltering the secrets of an ancient seabed
now turned to bushveld
suikerbos klipels kiepersol karee