the night Mandela died
it seemed that every being
retired to mourning
muting hush 
 
plains once dazzle a dozen 
become bereft of black striped tan
hyenas held their laughter
holed up in their dens
jackals even lost
their unstinting hunger
no springboks no oryx
no kudus no ostrich
 
at dawn this land
lay barren as we passed
till beyond Fells Spring
we saw the king himself
and then
as if the moment marked
returning back the way we’d come 
his subjects danced