MandelaI believe that when I come to the end

I will not know why I began

I have been a journeyman

Nothing more

The sweet child that was in me

Has not gone away

Though age has camouflaged the contours


To realise that everything that made

The middle

Was filling that I forgot

Not enterprise and worth

That built the being

That sits holding this thought

Makes me squirm


All that restless energy

All that hope. Depleted. Lost

Before the book is done

Will leave tracts blank

The memory speckled by dust

And the usual incoherent

Lunging at love and loss 

Let us hope for a change of course

Some magic in new hope

To lift the veil on another plaque

To a man who was

And left behind a memory

Others cherish