by Lise Day

The train rattles through the suburbs
scented gush of spring air
whooshes in the open space
whooshes in the open space
‘No Leaning on the Doors’
we wouldn’t if we could.
A shriek of brakes – we erupt
into the melee of Cape Town Central
crumbling chaos, workmen
overlay grubby green tiles
faux marble gleaming expanse
for the twenty-ten world cup.
Dance a few steps sway my hips
the street music moves my feet
past the hustle herbalist eager to
‘Bring Back my Virginity in one Day’.
Flower sellers explode the alley
colour, scent of lilies, roses vie
with snoek and hake and chips.
Plink a coin in the cup
of the blind man singing
dodge cacophony of taxis
enter ‘Exit only’ side door
edifice of the city hall.
Here the ancient marble’s real
tiny intricate mosaics underfoot
chandeliers reflect a morning sunbeam.
Players, vulnerable without their formal starch,
tune instruments, chat, drink coffee
the conductor raises a slender baton
then Beethoven wells and swells
envelopes us in harmony
My Africa



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