1990-0200 Poem ‘Release’ by Lynne Bryer

He emerged, walked free
looking like an ordinary, sweet grandfather
from the Eastern Cape:
those lovely old men we children knew
were wise and saintly,
walking down the streets
in ancient suits, greatcoats
from the First World War. We always greeted,
an exchange both courteous and right.

Grown older, we salute Mandela.
Not the bogeyman whose face
was a forbidden sight (abroad,
we looked in libraries); nor charismatic
warrior, giving tongue in blood and flame.

The heavens did not fall.
But then, for days before, the mountain
(struck by lightning) burned,
the dark alive with crimson snakes
writhing on air, black elevation of the night.

Confirmation came
less from our eyes, watching the images that flew
about the world, than from the way we felt:
elated, cool, not doubting this was true,
the destined time and place.

This is the way messiahs come -
when time can stand no more delay,
and people throng the streets, mill in the square,
climb trees to see.

       Even the soldiers,
nervous in the mob (since they alone are armed,
and so not free) are part of the convergence,
the dislocated, sudden calm of knowing:
This was the way it had to be.