Phyllis Els has written for us before and her delicate and sensitive views of life are
always worth reading.
THE GREY UPHEAVAL
I look at Table Mountain and tears spring to my eyes,
Its lofty peaks have sheltered me since birth.
For countless generations my folks have slumbered here
And dug their roots deep into the fertile earth.
Great Grandpa was born here and husbanded his sheep
On the gentle slopes that nestle round the mount,
It was here he raised his family and here he tilled the land
And worked for years too numerous to count.
Early in the morning with the dew upon the grass
And misty clouds swirling round the peak,
The air as sweet as nectar, the world so clam and still
And peace so deep you could almost hear God speak.
But our God did not hear us when be beseeched Him with our plea
That we be allowed to stay here on the hill,
For some strange, elusive reason known only to a few
We have been told to leave against our will.
‘Pal up your belongings, pull down your lousy shacks,’
Was the order that came to spell our doom,
And so we started marching with our babies on our backs
And our beloved mountain was shrouded with our gloom.
With heavy hearts we packed our things, left Cape Town with a sigh
With just one backward glance at the stern peaks,
Lamenting and willing, we leave our only home
With tears of anguish running down our cheeks.
---oo0oo---
THE LONELY WATCHMAN
In the cold and lonely stretches of the night
Sits a lone watcher, hair grizzled white.
Snowflakes are falling, trees iced with frost.
In this frozen stillness the whole world seems lost.
A brazier is lit but is burning low,
It offers no comfort but gives just a glow,
An eerie light in this bitter night
But there is no one to see it, no one in sight.
Coat collar muffled up to his ears,
There is just enough light to shine on his tears.
He thinks of them rich folks asleep in their beds,
Soft eiderdowns cover them right over their head.
Coal fires burning dispel the chill air
While Grandpa dozes in a deep easy chair.
Snow and ice don’t bother them none,
Thick furs and boots make winter seem fun.
But what of his Sophie and chillun back home,
They’s cold and they shiver right through to the bone.
Cold winds whistle through the cracks in the walls,
There jest ain’t no statues in them draughty halls.
Cold and hunger is their share in life.
Oh his poor chillum and Sophie, his wife.
Where will she find food to give them next day
Why does he have to work so far away?
What cruel fate parts husbands from wives
Making them lead two separate lives?
Why were they turned away from their home
And in the wilderness made to roam?
Lord, is there justice, is it a sin
To be born on this earth with a black skin?
To work from morning till late in the night
And no one to raise a voice for our plight.
As grey dawn came breaking and frost crowned his head,
They found old Josiah and his fire – both dead.
§