The lover of Jane Eyre and the wild Sargasso Sea

Come with me to this wide open place
This place of husband and wife, companions
This known yet unknown place of wonder
There is still a distance from the rest
Of the planets, the turning moon and sun
The tides of the ocean, the Pacific and Indian
Which is where we’ll keep on meeting
When there is a scarcity of the faces of love
Reach deep within yourself and look inside your heart
For all the assumptions that are lying there
In wait for you drenched in circumspection
For child are you not a warrior made in perfection?
The laws of suffering are not meant for you
It is not the place for you. Your childhood
Filled you with dignity and hope will not empower
You but also uplift you. You with your mind
Are meant for a beautiful life filled with passion
And many dappled things such as the poetry
Of language of the wreck at the end of the world
The gracious lady that is the ship wreck and light house
Waves may have called to you like they did to that ship
For you are not just imagined. You are a myriad of things.
All the pretty horses on the prairies
I know what I have to be delivered from
It is silence, the despair of silence, the bleak
Landscape of the rural post-apartheid countryside
But I need the fragrant air that is vital, fresh
My bones need to acquire it – that certain pleasure
My lungs need to be filled with more than grace
I am in need of wings and a rosary
You are reduced to be being a thing that is worshiped
Put on a pedestal or put on a throne wearing a crown
Once you were that sought after
You were the vision that we have of ourselves
Enough to transform and transfigure our souls
Winters will be deposited here long after
We have summered here in the hot zone of this climate
You are the filthy lover of this dream I have of you
You are the dreamer and the exotic perfumed one
You are my cure for me to be purified and my tonic
How I long for your arms and for your warm embrace
You are my extraordinary emergency service
Bright, vivid, vivacious and signalling red
War is my country but then again so are you
My Paris, my Hemingway, my moveable feast.