by Lise Day
Choose the road that curves beneath
the gaze of the Twelve Apostles
where they stare unwavering
as the sun balances on the horizon
before a sudden dip into
the cold Atlantic sea
Follow round past
eagerly craning giraffe necks
in serried ranks
Nguni cattle skins sadly pegged
vivid batiks aglow
Crest the brow and see
all of Africa cluttered ramshackle
on the facing slope slipping
into the blue bay
Plunge between the yellow dunes
of sifted sand and fynbos tangle
steer around the world of birds
slow down behind the big red bus
with snapping sun-blown tourists
Keep gently left
and there
sheltered by the rock cascade
that is the back of an Apostle’s robe
on the bank of the stream tea-dark
with brak of roots and leaves
is my forest cottage.
