Between the tracks

The tourist train between the city and Ntshongweni
idles at Dalbridge then glides towards Berea.

Past the black plastic shelters of those who have lost their homes and their hopes.

Along embankments of litter.

Into long tunnels hewn through cliffs

(How many people took how long, at what cost to achieve this?)

The train emerges into sunshine and stops next to a waterfall, splashing into a pristine pool.

At the unkempt Ntshongweni station, a bus waits to take passengers to the market.

There you can buy joy, love, peace and happiness, beautifully spelled out in wooden letters, serif or sans, natural, white, grey or blue, depending on what style you like your sense of well-being.

Delectable dishes for those of us who do not fear for our daily bread.

Exquisite adornments for those who have outfits to match them

Personalised cups for those whose names already appear on title deeds, contracts and credit cards.

Back on the train, waiting at Berea for a signal change, the instruction comes to close the windows. A public announcement apologises for the attempt by ‘drunk people’ on the platform to grab bags and extort money.

Tie me to the tracks and cut me in two, just here where my heart is broken

For I cannot split myself across this divide

And I cannot stay whole in the face of it.