Kirstenbosch

here I sit among the ancient cycads,

reading your ancient book under a mighty yellowood,

stories of men and women long departed.

the sun climbs steadily to its zenith,

the shadows shorten, the birdsong lessens,

the day grows hotter and heavier.

i know my father loved this place

and i expect his father before him too,

this place of silence, beauty, tranquil peace.

did they expect to see you here?

did they listen for your voice in the windsong?

or look for your image in the flowers?

did they come here to escape the madness?

the unforgiving schedule, the inflexible timelines?

to flee the tyranny of others' needs and expectations?

did they come here with their soul-mates,

seeking to re-ingite their love-fires?

looking for a private spot to say a word or plant a kiss?

did they come to marvel at your handiwork?

your breadth of vision, your eye for detail?

your use of colour, light and shade, your symphony?

or did they simply come to be?

to sit and be?

and not be bothered

by the time

or the budget

or the next meeting's preparation

but just to be and to enjoy being

being human,

being healthy,

being alive?