Nooit Is Ons Verlate (Vi’ al my mense wat trek): Michael Weeder


Nooit Is Ons Verlate
(Vi’ al my mense wat trek)

Packing, sifting through. Weighing up what to pass, let go.
Reflect. On people and things. The memory
of the how and when. Your eyes tears from dust and grit

and a laugh now and then at the silliness and wisdom
of the diary-like uncovering of our spirit’s
tickling whisper of what we thought was

so terribly needed. Once. In the, emptying rooms the blessed tearing
of brown, sticking tape. Its seal, binds a committed boxing-out
of the unessential. Then, a quiet breathing in: gratitude for all

that was well and true behind the closed door of our old home.
Pluck and crush the lemon leaf off the tree innie agte jaart.
Keep its intensity of ceasing sap seeping beyond stem and branch:

A sacrament of the pilgrim’s parting. And then, later,
as you cross over where elands once roamed,
scatter the bits and pieces into the sunny breeze.
© michael weeder


Pilgrim: David Whyte


I bow to the lark
and its tiny
lifted silhouette
before infinity.
I promise myself
to the mountain
and to the foundation
from which
my future comes.
I make my vow
to the stream
flowing beneath,
and to the water
towards all thirst,
I pledge myself
to the sea
to which it goes
and to the mercy
of my disappearance,
and though I may be
left alone
or abandoned by
the unyielding present
or orphaned in some far
unspoken place,
I will speak
with a voice
of loyalty
and faith
to the far shore
where everything
turns to arrival,
if only in the sound
of falling waves
and I will listen
with sincere
and attentive eyes and ears
for a final invitation,
so that I can
be that note half-heard
in the flying lark song,
or that tint
on a far mountain
brushed with the subtle
grey of dawn,
even a river gone by
still looking
as if it hasn’t,
or an ocean heard only
as the sound of waves
falling and falling,
and falling,
my eyes closing
with them
into some
undeserved nothing
even as they
give up their
on the sand.

David Whyte