Standing on The Glen
he reels in the line
and stares out
beyond Dell Rocks
where silver skies
map a route to the Cape –
where the Atlantic washes up
over the continent’s foot.
Staring out over the bay
he breathes the salt air
taking winter home –
where the west winds’ current
will spray up from rocky shores
and slither into beds of fynbos
then rise white like prayer
above the peninsular
where iron skies
are knitted with the thread wire
of migratory birds
diving through Morse code
and radio channels
carrying forecasts and news
back to where he stands –
a world away
from the world –
radiosonde and balloon
miles above The Glen.