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