Longing for St Francis

It was a song title
for my small guitar playing hands in December
a seasonal fire of the mind ignites
that longing, years later
far beyond reckoning, adult reasoning
logic abandons, late in the night
certain stoic images remain solidified
tide gathering towards our rock pool house, later afternoon
the morning light shattering the sea in diamonds
Tropitone oil for dark skin leaking onto towels,
 imprinted permanently with the holiday scent

Christmas cake sitting in the heat, signature of that house
Humansdorp Home Industry shop, dusty ferns, the quiet cashier
the delight of choosing homemade shortbread with that small line of pink icing
we buys bagfuls, the parents buy rusks
picnics up the Kromme river, jumping off the boat,
and delights of vetkoek with cheese and jam,
all these moments, fragranced, stayed


The view of that bay,
 the boats lit at night like upside down stars on the water
but one best beloved scent alludes me
it abandoned me when we left that place
I wake up sweating, confused, crying
whispering to myself
I have forgotten the smell of fynbos.