On 3/27/13, on a hot, still Citybowl day, Marcus Low wrote:
Here the wind has left us
Gone on holiday … or hunger strike
No one really cares
We’re hardened by abandonment
These old streets are empty as death
Don’t you finger that flag, don’t you dare tempt us by fluttering those
We done miss your fatherly hand in our hair
We are free now.
Knowing how fast that can change, Joanne replied:
The Wind sloped out of the City Bowl at 4.35am that morning – he may have mumbled that it was for a pack of cigarettes or a carton of soya milk – depends on who was listening, just before it went silent.
Somewhere between Woodstock and Rondebosch he shed his fatherly disguise, and ran through his Halloween scales.
By the time he rode into Newlands on the back of morning traffic, no-one in the City Bowl would’ve known him. And as Claremont started work, he was there: Wind was working their streets like an acrobat on badly-cut street drugs – swirling, whirling, menacing…