Cameo of Cape Town
There is a tree That grows outside my window. Umbrella shaped, On one side, cool shadow; On the other, the sun. People can choose, Protection or fun. An evergreen tree On evergreen grass, An azure sea And cloudless sky; An idyllic stage set. Each scene a cameo of Cape Town. A lone minstrel in the shade, His once bright jacket Has begun to fade, Dolefully playing happy tunes He hopes the tourists will enjoy. His plaintive notes revealing That in his world These songs have no meaning. The picnickers dance And eat small banquets, Long, flowing dresses Caressing the grass. They smile as their toddlers Take first steps. The homeless man, Clothes and hopes in tatters, Rummages through the bin; But he is late, There were others before him. So, he lies in the soft grass To sleep but not to dream. His hunger has stolen his dreams. A peloton of cyclists Rush by on expensive bikes, Checking their heart rates and speeds. They do not even see The ever changing sea, The ever changing scene. A cameo of Cape Town - A stage set for dreams. Dreams come true, Dreams being made, Dreams in tatters - In the shadow of the tree. CLICK HERE TO READ MORE POEMS BY SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD Have you seen the ribbon,
Sea Point Promenade? Rainbow of our nation, Lying next to the waves, At the foot of Signal Hill. Ribbon of light and colour, Palette of people; Beautiful; Each individual And their mix. Have you heard the orchestra? Treble of languages, Crashing bass of the sea; Symphony of diversity? I have seen the boy, Picnic blanket and family; Gyroscope of excitement, Whirling with delight, Memories that grow For tomorrow. I have heard the children Scream with glee, Free In the glistening excitement Of the spray from the sea. I haven’t heard dogs bark But I’m sure I’ve seen them smile; Tails wagging high, Free of the leash, They meet and greet And celebrate Life On the Sea Point Promenade. Bicycles and skateboards Weave through The warp and weft; Appliquéd with Serene police on gentle steed And superhero police on Segway. And as seagulls Sing their raspy song, From pushchair to wheelchair We pass along. Diversity's fashion ramp, Where lady and scamp, Hijab, sari, shorts and sarong Together flow By the white splashes Of the green sea. A rainbow. As I sit here in my bright little flat
An air of quiet excitement fills me; And I feel I should be quaffing champagne. Or wine grown from the crystal waters Of our nurturing Mother Mountain I see the Mountain And her city. Feel the breeze as it slides Gently down her green slopes And hear the sounds of the busy city folks. Arms outstretched, She nestles the city Born as a garden, Suckled by her crystal waters. Those sparkling waters That fed the land And grew an opulent garden of abundance; Feeding ships from across the world. Farmers, wine makers, Brewers and adventurers Were drawn To our Mountain’s maternal feet. Artists and poets Extolled her beauty. Architects sculpted buildings, Monuments to the memory Of their forsaken homes. Garden of plenty, Small city of promise. And now at night The city lights Mirror the sky; And the Mountain sighs. An uncertain sigh; Not sure that all is well with her child. Her lush, green swaddling blanket Is being cut And torn And turned to concrete and stone. Her crystal streams Now find paths under The urine-steeped concrete and tar. Beggars eke out an existence From bins And sleep in gutters around the church. Even the pigeons in her garden of plenty, Prefer to beg than collect the succulent seeds. Stoically, Mother Mountain looks on, Arms outstretched; Faced to the dangers of the sea, Back against the hordes of the hinterland. Will her city-child outgrow his profligate ways? Will he become the sparkling gem Promised by the crystal waters That spawned him? The breeze strengthens And slowly the Table Cloth Covers her Table. By: SHARON HEANEY STANSFIELD CLICK HERE TO READ MORE POEMS BY SHARON |
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