Cape Of Good Hope

another evening sky
twists into night,
the Ox-carts have sneak-thieved
into the past,
safe in nostalgia’s land
where their kind rule to last;
another morning comes,
emptied of promise and
noon brings with it
its despair,
new masters in bigger chairs
collectively scratch and ponder;
in the township
children trail toy AK 47s
in the dust,
whilst hollow cheeked young women
lecture on Rousseau and
carry the guardian folded neatly,
as if…

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *