Sir Lowry’s Pass

We drove down Sir Lowry’s Pass in my father's '56;
Somerset West seen from the Merc's windows
splaying like a Red Sea Star
under the night's crude black.

The smell of diesel and seat leather like dust in my nose,
stately as a ship, we chugged towards the coastal plain;
the dark unabridged around us;
sleep, like far Cape Town, a diamond galaxy beckoning.

Softly my mother and father talked in front.
I leaned on my sister’s unconscious form;
watching my father shift gears - down, down -
cream handle gleaming pale fire under his hand.