In a land on the southern tip so diverse
where two great oceans meet
and braid their tempers
in white spray on pristine shores,
where mountains lift their flat palms
to hold the last gold of day,
I saw her, just a moment’s glance.
Fynbos breathed its resinous hymn,
sugarcane whispered along the stretching coast,
and red earth lay on valley and hill,
keeping the memory of heat
like a pulse beneath naked skin.
She moved through protea fields and wind,
more beautiful than summer light,
with something of the huntress in her
not pursuit, but knowing
a gaze that measured distance
as easily as the horizon measures us.
Above her, the southern sky tilted,
clouds scattering in gentle embrace:
the long rivers of stars,
the steadfast Southern Cross,
Orion claiming the dark,
the Three Sisters burning clear,
and that quiet pole of night
once guiding sailors past the Cape of Storms.
Even they seemed to falter,
their cold geometry undone,
as if heaven itself
consulted its fixed lights
and questioned where to anchor
in the presence of her fire.
And from that moment
poetry began walking barefoot
over sand, stone, and jagged rock,
trying to find her soul
and failing
to name her.