| Poems from | |
| Mohedien's Cafe Woodstock Station, platform four, people on their way to work, much too early for the law or the gangs, cold morning dark. Down by Mohedien's Cafe, where the plastic tatters blow on the bladewire, no kids play. Train wheels shriek; the glow of streetlamps in the day's first light. Figures moving through the dawn jump the wall, slip through the hole in the fence, drift out of sight. Steam of roti take-away; smell of fish from table bay; people shouting, taxi noise; trains hammer, hammer past all day. Mothers bring your kids from sleep, sing them love and sing them peace. Warm breath of a sleeping child; the world is strange and near and cold. Down by Mohedien's cafe trapped forgotten plastic blows. Dress the children, get their food, send them out into the day. | |