Saturday, May 30, 2009



Just a voice in the night
On the radio.
The accent homely and very British.
The voice elderly and uncertain.
'There are seven hundred and fifty of us'
He said;
'All that's left.'
He was speaking from Zimbabwe
He was speaking from
The Rhodesia
Of his youth;
My youth.
I could hear the echoes
Of my own past
In his voice.
Maybe I knew him.
Once upon a time.
And as he spoke
I was back there,
A Brit
In Africa.
Overwhelmed by the sun
And the altitude
And the beauty
And the fun
And the friendship
And the happy people
Of every colour.
Fifty years ago.
Now he is leaving.
Britain has offered asylum.
He and the others like him
Are penniless,
No longer golden boys and girls.
Only a very small tragedy
In the larger picture.
But a tragedy even so.
Only the echoes remain.



So moving.

Monda said...

Stunning. Just stunning.

Kat said...

Felt so sad reading that.
Good of Britain to have offered shelter to him.

Ramesh Sood said...

beautifully said.. very touching..

indicaspecies said...

Profound, and poignant!

Teresa said...

Such a beautiful sad poem. I love that you always have a political voice but maintain the beauty of poetry.

Anonymous said...

Wow! This is amazing writing, a lyrical covering of a sad situation, sad even though asylum has been offered... the end of a way of life. Thank you

Amanda Moore said...

haunting and so sad but a beautiful piece of work!

The Reason You Come said...

This is such a moving a and haunting piece. It gave me goosebumps!