Robben Island

ROBBEN ISLAND

Morning soothes the cold sea

with yellow fingers of light

wound around with mist.

The gulls float and cry

like ashes from a fire

lost in the limbo of old storms.

Bare, still, blue, in the quiet sea,

the island rides serenely,

a flattened pearl in the beautiful oyster-bay.

But its violence tears the sky

to screaming ribbons which descend

in thick horror on the land.

It is a mountain built over the years

of small frustrations, misery, hate,

injustice and starvation.

Its roots are in the hearts of men

and in their bellies

and its darkness shuts their minds

before the night.

Oh cry out now, you violent stones

for I have heard the sunken thunder,

felt the earth tremble, seen the light at the crater's core!

Soon it will come – the bursting mountain,

The blood-coloured shouts will blot out the sun,

spill confusion to the horizon and stain the earth.

Copyright Ruth Hartley Cape Town 1964 - 1965, first published in the African National Congress magazine, Sechaba in 1968.
Written while living in District Six with a view of Robben Island from my bedroom.