Rocks in the glow

Over thousands of years, thousands,

on days the sun shines brightly,

fifteen minutes before it sets,

a high mountain we call Devil’s Peak

becomes a golden monument.

Such a day, rocks like these,

millions, billions of them

have glowed so brightly

with the joy of life and energy.

And we walk, cycle and run in the holy glow.

To be like a cloud

Mountain, tree, sea -

holding clouds, frame clouds, change with it, 

just slower, much slower.

Clouds are different –

slow, fast, imperfectable, forceful, peaceful, changeable

that's how it will be, how it is.

And that’s how I can really be, am, want to be –

like a cloud, a mountain, a tree, the sea.

That it is my birthday wish today.

Gospel of grass

On a hot, summer's day it’s all about grass.

Grass in crowds of small, dry pods at the end of long brown stems that waltz towards the sun.

Or green blades that sway like dancers on very long, slim legs.

And small grass forests along the path.

This universe of grass must surely be the holder of something big and secret.

Not just grass.

A fly, a blade, a stream.

Grass bleached white like whale bones by the afternoon sun.

Tree trunk with stones collected from a long gone flooded river.

And the sky burns

The sun sets early in Deer Park -

a place with a green and tranquil heart

and where a stream always sings,

here at the gentle foot of massive Platteklip.

But then, when driving home,

a fire of a sunset jumps from Lion’s Head

and sets the sky alight with burning clouds,

freeing the city, the mountain, the world.

While in Deer Park all was soft, green and tranquil.

A mountain whisper

At dusk, rain threatened.

A soft musky fragrance of incense curled from the mosque on Signal Hill.

Beyond the mosque, just down the path where everyone walks or runs,

hidden in the fynbos, is a scattering of kramats.

This place is where six or seven Islamic wise men and teachers

have been buried for centuries.

Some kramats are ornate, some just marked by stones,

but all covered with a fabric chadar,

pilgrims’ sign of devotion and reverence.

Over here all the kramats are also surrounded by fynbos -

rose-scenting pelargoniums, imphepho, wild rosemary.

On this day rain drops down on the chadars,

mist covers the pine trees and the big mountain slowly disappears.

As-salam alaykum. Peace be upon you, whispers the mountain.

And it does.

Rain drops  on the chadar.

Breathing rocks

At six o’clock, as the week folded its wings into the weekend,

the rain swept down – hurried, lightly – like a veil in the wind.

This is when the mountain is turned into a jewellery box,

and every leaf, branch and flower

is draped in diamonds and sapphires and crystals.

But the magic that flings itself forward –

that makes me gasp at their beauty,

are simply two rocks,

breathing in the light of the setting sun.

Two pine needles

It’s a windless summer afternoon on the mountain.

On a knobbly rock under a thick-barked old pine tree

exists a lichen and moss artwork in a hidden shady spot.

Today just two pine needles cross gently over this masterpiece

and swallows fly fast and sharply under small flag whistles.

It’s hot.