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Cradled in her earthy arms,
of peak, table, head and hill.

Against her warm-grey, granite belly,
the mother city, a bowl of light,
sleeps tonight.

And in the morning
the sun will rise,
to cast its golden glory
over this,
peninsula paradise.
With rays that hurtle,
across the windy flatland
that joins her oceans.
To permeate slowly
the early morning,
winter mists,
and tall, sweet-smelling,
pine trees.
To cast a dappled sunlight on the damp
bed of autumn leaves,
of her quiet mountain, forest paths
and crystal streams,
that offer easy refuge
from the bustle of her materiality.
Then decline back to the waters-edge
and weave a thin thread,
along her jagged coastline.
Only to rise again,
high above sparkling white beaches
offset with the atlantic blue.
And then plummet down her spine
where her prehistoric tail dissapears
into the churning waters
of two mighty oceans meeting.
And back rising, yet again
to traverse her precarious cliffs,
lying exposed to the colder pole.
Another bay,
and scattered beaches,
around every corner,
of every point.
Till the rocky outcrop,
gives way,
to the flatland,
to the mainland.
Until the scattered beaches
blur, into a vast uninterrupted
expanse of sparkling-white
offset with blue.
Here the orange, sunset-hue
will settle down
to silhouette sailing ships
lying anchored in the bay.
While from all the beachfronts,
in the warm, still air
of her summer nights,
drifting sounds of lovers and friends
sharing the warm hospitality
of her music, laughter and wine.
Like you and I here,
at the foot of her towering,
grey-granite belly,

who stand in awe
of her African splendour.

THIS ... is Cape Town.

© Tred Magill