Love Poetry For Couple

Surely our walk will soon be a thing of past dreams, given that since you left there have been no options, brother, for body or for mind; and this park where you lie holds no promise of release. We sit listening to wind whip the leaves of this oak that grows on your grave. To weed the mound, dig out and chuck away dandelions, tufts of tussock still stuck to our memory, to hoe, rake the surface with our hands and water it with salt is to accept the solitude of your room. On a clear day in winter one can see the tree far off, gnarled in abscission, reaching to grab heaven by its lapels. Seasons come. Wrapped in bark against the chill, the tree homes birds in its branches. Meanwhile, throughout summer, its roots drink the life of your blood that clings to leaves that float earthward on scarlet wings, till once more winter brings its black, black night of ice. Photo by Sabine Dundure

     �for my brother, Khotsofalang Memory lifts its veil, everybody calls you, but no appearance. Once again I recall walking nights with you, touching walls toward a light of home�s distance lit for those still outside, till that night became another day. I remember ten childhood commandments, how absent loves have to be watered and fed with half the force of touch and light and tongue, and half with a winter of wild surmise. Today still the quiet night brings images of walking toward that hill of home, using darkness as a guide there. Then one morning you were gone, on one day that took you away, your stature, the quiet non-form of your build�for all was you� none of us knew what was coming despite what you embody today. What we had not realised was that there was no ram tied to our Abraham shrub. Thou shalt not awake after dying, thou shalt be willing to refuse refuge in the arms of their Lord. You left Lesotho the year of your eighteen years and we closed ou...

Souls are squeezed from moss-free rock, and men from souls. You (to whom I wish a turquoise sky That beguiles some who die Onto a cloud to lay their head) Are not made of chalk. So what if the boy takes this room The way he does, wearing your poise Like a model on a dais? We will have lived fast and strong You & I, from our past so long, Into this grave goodbye. Pindrop Press , 2012