Whenever I stop to think deeply
during these days of violent change
I meet up with the martyrs for freedom.

I see Steve Biko again
and Achmad Timol
and David Webster,
all, all of them killed by deeds of hatred.

Read Is This the Freedom for Which We Died?


Too small to be a dorp, too dry
and Eastern Cape for a village,
its outline trembles on hot days.

In Xhosa it's known as Mpofu,
which hints at dun, austere colours,
the eland's name, and nourishment.

Read Seymour

How frightened we were,
you clutching a handkerchief to your mouth,
me looking back, then jumping sideways
as a snarling Alsatian, fangs bared, leapt at my arm,
both of us running as fast as we could,
running with hundreds of people
away from the dogs, the soldiers, the teargas
as the music booming across the show-grounds,
the gum-trees in the car-park, the cars
suddenly went quiet.

Read The Music of Ordinary Things