Thursday, June 6, 2013
Saturday, June 1, 2013
From the mountain looking out over the ocean you can see the play and dance and argument of this day and the cold front. It’s as if grey clouds push the blue sky down, turning the ocean turquoise with cold silver light making wells on the surface.
Up here the buchu and mountain rosemary and impopo have the slender heat of the sunny day in their oily leaves, covering my fingers with their wild mountain scent when I crush them.
The waxy yellow flowerheads of a protea catch the last light and glow in the darkening day. Then the huge sun slips out underneath the grey and rides the day out over the sea in a wide beam of gold.
The next morning I wake up as the rain clatters down on the roof and know without looking out the window: all is now grey.
Posted by Judy van der Walt at 9:26 AM
Thursday, April 18, 2013
The rains came. Bursting clouds, white water rushed over the edge of Table Mountain, billions of droplets exploding onto big, flat, shiny, brown rocks.
And so, after the long summer, the mountain burst into song. A chorus of a thousand voices as streams and eddies and waterfalls rushed and swirled and splashed.
In the cold water-laden air along the ravines and gorges, proteas and restios and ericas swayed and dipped to the jubilant hallelujah chorus of winter’s first big rain.
The mountain sings again.
|A Cape sugarbird dries himself on a bush while the grey |
sky settles above the harbour.
Posted by Judy van der Walt at 3:51 PM
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Sunday morning up on the Saddle.
Blue sky blue ocean one vastness. Dried leaf blades of watsonia rub against each other in the wind, calling out with hoarse voices. Dried grass curls in strands over a rock. Bright orange and lime green lichen shine like ancient dried blotches of paint.
Here for just a moment is the centre of the universe. Where everything is beautiful.
Posted by Judy van der Walt at 11:53 AM
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Here at the foot of Table Mountain is a long, wide overhang where you are embraced by rocks. It is a quiet spot with many sounds.
Water drips from the roof of the overhang, a breeze rustles the trees, then drily rubs the long grass stems cascading over a ledge. A man with white plastic sunglasses runs past with thudding feet that fade away. A pigeon shakes its wings and hops into the mossy puddle where the water drips down.
There are no pictures of these sounds, but they are the knots behind the tapestry.
Posted by Judy van der Walt at 8:24 AM
Monday, January 7, 2013
In the long-lasting days of summer, the mountain sucks the last moisture into itself; into the oily buchu leaves, into the wild rosemary, into the pincushions that fray into brittle yellow stalks. Not a sugarbird in sight in the dryness.
The southeaster shakes the dry sutherlandia seedpods that tinkle on the howling low wind. Vygies cling to the rock, flowers faded pink like once bright swimming costumes after a long summer in the sun.
It's the dry gold season.
Posted by Judy van der Walt at 10:35 AM