Poetry

When the southeaster really starts to blow and jerk,
then white horses gallop down in the bay,
then bricks and oak trees are plucked out
when even big ships are tossed to and thro
and pine branches swing up and down,
when doves hide beneath roofs for the rain
and the people of Cape Town have barbeques in their homes,
when it feels as if the cold wants to turn you to stone,
as if the whole of nature is suddenly crying
and then I want to go to somewhere else.