Zimbabwe Poem by peter rodenby

In the dry stone of Zimbabwe
I wanted to walk look down
from the hill they call “The Acropolis”
where the most interesting
Archaeological finds were made,
to valley of ruins.

High walls that cast
longer shadows back into a remote past,
wander through intriguing passageways
attracted by brooding compelling atmosphere
enigma of a vanished society.

But I never made
that short trip from Johannesburg.
Our plans were cut short before they materialised.
All I have is a holiday brochure.
Rhodesia was in the turmoil of war
guerrilla armies, nagging, engaging, persistent
were destroying safety and internal security
of white racially dominated society.

They brought down a passenger plane
With a ground to air missile,
Murdered survivors in the bush,
all who could not escape
the wreckage of the crash.
Incident extensively report
in South African papers,
but hardly mentioned in England.

System disintegrating
We whites ghostly spirits
African legends linger on.
Wonder will we leave behind
Artefacts and articles
Ruins and mystery
People of Zimbabwe,
Have bequeathed to us.

White living flesh to bones
Our many achievements all to dust,
as theirs have gone before
in the place of the High One’s.
In the ruins of Zimbabwe.

Written in South Africa 1979