Turn Of The Season

The streets billow with dust and debris.
Trees, almost bare in the late winter chill,
point accusing fingers to the sky,
while a mangy dog scratches around the shell of a car,
smelling for intruders.

From a cafe on the corner leaks the tinny echo of good times;
Brenda Fassie – Weekend Special.
Time on my hands, I stroll over to escape the high veld cold.

Inside it's warm, redolent of old oil and fresh bread.
I sit at a metal table,
the plastic cloth bright and cheerful in the gloom.
My coffee comes,
a pot of hot water
accompanied by a bowl of faded brown granules.
I'm not in Sandton now ...

Time passes slowly off the beaten track;
experience soaks into the pores rather than sparking instantly on retina.
I sip my cup of almost coffee and just breathe.

Savuka sing of a cruel, crazy, beautiful world
– to the gentle percussion of drops on steel.
I stand, pull up my collar,
and go outside to watch the dust wash away.