Was it here
that I witnessed
your waiting game,
the standing in line for ‘gold’? Here among the trees,
in the early light, long lines formed
a ribbon of patience
unwinding for peace,
palms outstretched for change.

The days that followed seemed raw
and breathless
within a space of waiting
that could not be filled.
Blossoms – brick-coloured – caught in sunlight,
tumbled about you,
transfixed within the heat
as you were.

Their weight crumbles
the stone on which they climb.
There is little that will not yield to strength;
we know this, we know it well;
we know how it can twist and torture
and strangle
with the might of its hold.
We know about brutishness.

Somewhere, did I not hear
your brother’s words:
“restoration, love and tolerance”?
Did I dream them?
Even now they drift into the night’s air
but are eclipsed by your pain,
your dying and with so much sorrow.

ros d wilson
(May, 2008)