/lit/ - Literature

How easily God let Himself be seen
On table mountain, rising in the morn,
Amidst the Christmas beetles' restless scream
In Cape Town's holy Petrichor at dawn.

Not so in these strange climes; amidst the frost
The memory of sunshine would serve well,
If sunshine's rays my mind had not since lost.
Nostalgia perishes in this white hell.

For neither stubborn ground, nor hoary sky,
No apathetic stars, nor unseen God
Have sympathised with me when I have cried
Ice-salt into the barren blue-black clod.

Such sudden warmth! Illumined by a spark,
Both red and white. Be still; probe not a dream.
The recollection ventures from the dark
Unbidden, bringing strawberries and cream.

My Ouma's treat: one afternoon at ease,
When both our chins with precious juice ran red,
In wicker chairs beneath the balmy breeze.
Ah! Realm of ceaseless Summer in my head!

Possessed by sudden sweetness in my soul,
I find myself unfortified to charms
That hitherto ignored, I now extol.
God's grace is plainly seen in barren arms
Of Ash and Maple, branches scarlet-blessed:
The strawberries are there in robins' breasts!