_Where: on the stillest of afternoons,
a smudged winters sun
floods the river in a pastel haze,
mesmerising glimpses of
gulls, jetties and a bobbing white flotilla.
The distant hillsides
of Mt. Nelson and the ‘Bay’,
glimpsed across the cove
like a surreal Lloyd Rees canvas
captured in the foothills of Mount Kunanyi.
_Where: quaintly surnamed streets;
Colville, de Witt, Hampden
and the noble warriors,
St George and Napoleon,
wander the meandering hillside
like quaffed Shippies* drunks.
Promenades and esplanades,
crisscrossed lanes and alleyways,
a rich asphalt tapestry
fringed in garlands of forget me nots.
_And where: the warmth of
sandstone and scarlet brick;
convict made, hewn and laid,
in serried rows, others randomly strewn,
proudly picked lintols, contrasting corbels
– a Queen-Anne, Maryanne score.
Whitewashed boarded cottages
with gingerbread barges;
con grandezza on the upside (of the street),
diminuendo on the down.
