Everywhere Looks Like Franschhoek

Roads that rumble along

Wild and loose with

Errant, slapping tongues.

In the baked heat of a

Civilised full stop.

We bask, drive and shuffle,

Skin crisping and eyes

Guarded from rays.

All sevens gears automated

To churn, sinful in bliss.

We ascend to be stunned and

Descend to be sunned, again.

Gross misjudgement sings

In these hills;

Rattles off tin roofs aslanted

And words struggle through

The smog and stench of filth.

Palaces hold us; the height

Offers us a view

Of these

Insolent, laughing masters.

Life’s rates set deep in stone,

Established by a waning throne,

We cross ourselves

Yet judge thee unworthy

For a great mistrust

They will remain dirty.

Segment, beset, and shelve,


For it is to a different hell,

This corpse shall

be ridden.



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