C.T spring

Cape Town struts into spring
with barely a glance over her gold-dust shoulder
at withered old-man winter.
Her spiked-gold Christian Louboutins
skim the flowered runway
of yellow, white, purple daisies seen only in Namaqualand
Her hips sway a rhythm
that have all fall at her feet
High,
on the pollen that wafts from between her thighs...
Drunk,
on the suggestion of love
in her sea-blue slanted eyes...
Entranced,
by her cherry-ripe lips
slightly parted, glistening an invitation
to taste from their orchard.
Cape Town,
full-bodied like your wine
and round-breasted
like the mounds of Lion's Head
We who love you
begin to salsa to your rising heat