Her jewels are not in cliffs, not caves, not gouged from mines,
Nor sifted from delta sands of a river like the Orange.
They are found in her sun kissed aqua lap and her tanzanite loins.
They are sprawled across these shores, like an offering to Ra.
A bracelet of topaz, glistening on gold strewn sands.
Pristine, temperate waters, tongued by a deep Antarctic kiss.
Verdant olive and emerald green grasses
Spackled about the hills, the Heads of Knysna.
This is a place of fertility, feracious, vital.
A source of mending, and regeneration.
Her beauty poetic, fecund. From the air
Her sensuality obvious, as a deep cut channel
Feeds into a womb of marina and shelter.
Shall I take you there?
Will we each fall?
Would we slide,
Deep beneath her spell of dreams?
Her web of tales of spice traders?
The obsessive quests of whalers, or pirates.
Will we spy the spirit of da Gama? Of Diaz?
Or lovers in the surf, awash with renewal,
Laced in the jewels of faith, hope, and love?
One could grow rich as a farmer of colors.
Such a harvest of blues and ambers.
Larimar and tourmaline shimmer in the shallows,
Off the shoals, lapis rules her depths.
She is a tapestry, a weave of fact and dream.
Come holiday, come wash.
Come watch the sparkle.
There is a color here, that still has no name.
There is spirit here, that no one will tame.
