The Midnight Garden

Nothing is there to know when we are standing at the foot of the hour

In the place with the midnight garden.

We only really become alive at night 

At the time when all else is still 

And something inside us is breaking 

The chime on the grandfather clock feels louder somehow 

And the roses who usually sprig with the hum of bees and catch the golden light 

Are dull now 

But they have a kind of elegance their daytime counter does not possess 

Blessed be the stupor of the tree of time 

Who remains infinite in his elderly pose

And watches over us all, no matter the hour;

And the twiglets and vines that rise over the brick home 

Leading us neither outwards or away 

Nor taking us over the pass where we no longer care to tread 

We are not tired, no

But there is silence surrounding what is alive;

There is stillness surrounding what is bursting 

It is a time to wake in a new way 

In the surrounds of the dark

In the memory of death 

In the momentary out-of-body experience

That carries us everywhere, and nowhere

And we sing the song that is only inside us 

To be heard only by us

Forgiveness

Forgiveness stays hidden in a mossy forest, 

Planting trees 

Building benches made from oak and teak

Many call his name 

But Forgiveness – gentle, quiet Forgiveness

Only whispers. 

Like years that grew the pine 

Tall and grounded,

Forgiveness takes time

To find him for yourself and for others 

Walk in faith 

Through needle paths

And be brave. 

Stay brave.

Because on those windy roads you’ll face 

The very roots of the hurt you so wish to escape 

Feeling, feeling,Bleeding, kneeling

Until...

Forgiveness takes the satchel from your back 

The one you didn’t know you wore

And lets lightness overcome

The weight your shoulders bore.

He’ll sit with you on a bench 

Made of forest teak 

And let you breathe away the bitterness

That before made you weak.

Silent companion on a bench

Forgiveness touches palms and lungs

Fists and chest unclench –

And resentment leaves 

Through eucalyptus leaves

Lost in the forest 

With old losses you used to grieve

And you whisper, “I am more”

And stand up again. To realise – 

You are so much taller than before.

Goodbye, Mugabe

[Looking back at this piece, written in November 2017. The coup that was not a coup. In the current day, there is still an unbelievable resilience and joy that makes a Zimbabwean, Zimbabwean. Yet - ongoing economic turmoil overturns the country and makes it very difficult for any business to survive, let alone prosper. This poem was written with Mugabe's name. But perhaps there is nothing personal in the experience of global corruption, greed and politics. All politicians, and I mean beyond Zimbabwe, seem to wear the same cloak in different shades. Or is it a mask? We call for young leadership, for new systems, and for unity and equality. Maybe the time is not now, but surely, surely, it must arrive; the time when leaders will be guided by compassion, and lead with intelligence and heart.]

Do you hear the chanting voices, Mugabe? Suppression now outspoken.

Standing side-by-side, Zimbabwe, courageous and unbroken.

We call you out old man, we have witnessed what you’ve done –

Once strangled by your terror, now we sing as one.

You stood and spat Mugabe; you stripped a nation bare,

You laughed as people fled – Gleamed satisfaction from despair.

You turned emerald fields to ashes, amber soils to a grey sea of neglect,

Colluded stealthily with greed, then watched it’s poison take effect.

Your feet stamped out hospital buildings, once hives of hope and health;

Leaving operations under flickering lights, while you inhaled putrid, seething wealth.

Families fled to borders and schools crumbled with your reign,

But now a nation rise Mugabe – We hold you to that pain.

You saw souls of hungry eyes, stood back and pulled a trigger;

You thought of us as weak, Mugabe, always thought that you were bigger. 

You turned gold to worthless paper, sunk the economy to a blackened, thieving grave

While you watched from your Mercedes, Mugabe – A lavish, tinted cave. 

Now whispers have turned to army trucks, your pedestal must burn

It’s been 37 years old man, you’ve long out-played your turn. 

There is the tremble of the anthem as thousands of voices chant

For all the things that they have hoped for; on behalf of all who can’t. 

When you leave your feet will sting, Mugabe, they will walk on shattered shards of broken

honour

As Zimbabweans stand together and sing – Ndebele, White and Shona.

For the final time: President Robert Gabriel Mugabe.

Nation, be set free.

Simudzai Mureza Wedu WeZimbabwe