The Author

The author, in his work, must be like God in the Universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere. Gustave Flaubert
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The South

Constantia Heights with her green belt Sparkling pearls and quiet comfort — towers Fynbos dunes lost in pallid plains and flats   The restless Cape Doctor ruffles my hair Shakes people and tickles old oaks — scatters Relics and phantoms into the pale sky   Ants wrestle desperately in the long grass I wrestle black ink on white paper We wrestle institutions of the past   Hottentots Hollands mountains sits quieted Observant, dark, grey and distant — ponders The ocean’s weight / The swoop of a swallow     Benedikt Sebastian
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