Late March in suburban Johannesburg,
The first day of Autumn, yet still the warmth
Of summer and everywhere the deep green
Foliage speaks of the coming of late rains.
Avenues lined with stately London planes,
In gardens oak and slender poplar trees
A most strange chimera of temperate climes
Verdant mark upon grassy Highveld plains.
Spawned in the shadow of Kruger’s Republiek
They struck gold up on the Witwatersrand
And in the crucible of empire
A great conflict engulfed the land.
Yet unscathed from war she did emerge
Mighty Jo’burg, Jozi, the place of gold.
I wish you well my friend, especially now
That your riches lie above the ground
and not within.