Spa

The dark settling with the dust
under the bluegums -
in the sky, a sharp cusp of yellow
holds the heavy round of moon in place.

She finds
Aliwal North spa
hidden in suburbia,
an anomaly.

neglected –
the plush lawns of the eighties,
replaced
by sand,
watchful Africans,
instead of well-off Afrikaners,
the guests.

She leaves the shelter of the big car
she has driven all day,
next to the shed,
and holding her boy’s hand,
follows the security guard
into its shadows.

A few pale discs of neon
flicker overhead,
illuminating a rectangle of
blue bubbling water
– bloodwarm.

Glossy tropical plants fringe the pool,
but pigeon-feathers
fleck its troubled surface.
A jagged rent
in the ceiling reveals tacit stars,
receding.

The lopsided Spur poster on the stairwell
in the corner
speaks of better days.
She remembers
tawny children,
her own lithe sixteen year-old body
trawling the waters.

Now, a mother,
heavier,
she wades,
carries her laughing boy
across the ferment,
emerging
from the earth’s womb.

Together,
they hold their breaths,
drop under,
into the heat of the heartbeat,
that pulses through
dirty white wooden floorboards.

The glass of the French doors
permits a night-time view onto thatched umbrellas, secretive palms –
as impressions of plants and moving water
reverberate against
its stillness.

Rafters angle
high above her,
rational, elusive.

She lets
the silver handrail
slip from her hands

the water
caresses the back of her head,

tender as a lover.


4.9.08