FOR KOLE OMOTOSO AT 80

 (With the world still learning how to borrow a wondering leaf)

               I

That number sounds so heavy
     I can hardly lift it with my tongue
Its span springs a distance un-measurable
     By the stretch of any ruler

The sun’s silent steps across
     The infinity of the sky
The concourse of the clouds
     Which drill and drop the rains

Night after night after night
     We sleep in the songs
Which sleep in us, dance with the dawn
     Whose drum provokes our day

We rise, unaware,
     As those songs sizzle into see-suns
Stir into seasons when the tree’s green promise
     Yellows into edible consumations

And the seeds which broke the sod
     Laugh soundlessly at harvestide
Time always tells its story
     Even when our ears are usurped by jubilant echoes

Unforgettable,
     Those dusky days in Akure Oloyemekun
When Dawn lifted its delicate dust
     And a new and complex day was born

           II

You frolicked through that dawn
     Distilled its dew
Rose above its grass
     And foresaw its noon

Those were days of stirring drums
     And soulful dances
Of songs which sewed the seasons*
     Into skeins of wisdom and timeless wardrobes

Baked brave by the native sun
     Your feathered heels embraced the world
From Ibadan-Ife to Edinburg, land of the Scotts
     Then to our Caribbean of rooted bondings and kindred voices

When our fledgling letters cried out for a way
     Out of History’s pit, yours was a clear
Refreshing voice  in the chorus which pledged
     Our commitment to the common good

The aching necessity of Positive Change,
     And the possibilities of Hope
Values which build the Whole Person
     Visions which enable the Future

In every brick of The Edifice is a story
     Which foretells the blind bullets of The Combat
To Borrow a Wandering Leaf longs for a key
     Which unlocks those Memories of Our Recent Boom

The Scales have not fallen from the eyes
     Of those who pronounce The Curse
Season of Migration to the South
     Surely needs a new compass

Having gone from The Theatrical Into Theatre
     Our painted faces crave a million mirrors
The traffic between street and stage
     Is loud with unquenchable visions

It is still Just Before Dawn
     Countless seasons after the primal moon
Woza Africa. Behold your faithful Griot    
     As he joins the Venerable Conclave of Elders

 *Riff on Sew the Old Days, Molara Ogundipe’s  memorable collection of poems.