Dance of quicksilver

A golden day slips out under the quicksilver of a cold front. One sunny day that stands like a red and green-jacketed soldier with medals glittering in a line of grey rainy winter days.

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.