Walking through the streets, across Thibault Square,
This could be any city in any country.
Here are the same rich, the same downs-at-heel,
The Fashionistas and the drones,
Here are the purveyors of newsprint and labels
Designer coffees and outrageous footwear,
The buses and taxis, the flowing river of commuters,
All moving or standing still to the same street music
That multi-layered concerto of
Voices and hooters and engines and feet.
And flitting between them like apostrophes,
The same sparrows and starlings, the ever-present pigeons.
What makes this different is the surprising backdrop
Of Table Mountain, Signal Hill and Lion’s Head
It’s broad daylight, but I have stars in my eyes.