Stepping away to look at myself,
I see a story, a book on the shelf.
Worn at the edges and slightly faded,
The cover is still eye-catching, though barely decorated.
Within, layers of pages I see sights; sounds,
From pastoral nights to city lights and circus clowns,
Then off into the world is where I bound
To exotic cultures and secrets found.
Others shaped and molded my mystery,
As I returned with new old eyes to teach my history.
Then critics rebuffed my character’s quest for adventure,
When I looked for fresh chapters to define my future.
Now that my character’s circumstances are dire;
Does my book absorb heaviness, water and fire.
For the Cape, with all its natural beauty and storybook wonder,
Belies the themes of our world, our country; our blunders.
A late bloomer’s tale I hope to share,
With others who’ve hoped, cared and dared.
For my story’s half written and I’ve decades to diminish,
With memories to sustain me until I’m finished.