Holy City

Still you haunt my dreams my own Adamastor but more African than he: Johannesburg City skyline. Hillbrow Tower, like a great cross with the arms broken off; your heart bruised, or puffed with pride – I can never tell. Ponty, huge, crested by ten stories of flashing advertisement (Coca-Cola and Vodacom denying your suicide leap and tenants’ death-in-life). Jo’burg Gen in between, a long flat concrete slab of hospital bridging the fallen host: you are life to many, you are death to many. Here in front are one, two, three solid blocks (I do not know what is inside) and other buildings stagger themselves to balance you, ballast for a land-bound craft. Away to the north your rich offspring turn their backs on your aged frame.         * I am ashamed to say that my faith has failed often but still you stand a stubborn grey silhouette. You do not promise to be a guardian; you do not make the threats that others hear. In your shadow the seas roar the winds howl many drown – but I will look you in the eyes, study you intently, with perspective. Did I say a stubborn grey silhouette? I apologise, for here I see you change: as early evening light breaks through the clouds you are full of contrast a few colours even and the setting sun makes you sparkle Holy city.

 

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