Trespasser by Tatamkhulu Afrika 2026
I wheel my bike under
the cathedral's dark overhang.
Seized by a rictus of the wind,
the trees shed rain.
Rain slides down
Wale Street's sleek, steep fall:
air is an ocean booming round
high bare walls.
My hands freeze on
the bike's crossbar,
seek the sodden saddle, toy
with the ice-cold bell:
I am suddenly fugitive,
homeless and cornered in
a caprice of pressure and cloud
I wheel my bike under
the cathedral's dark overhang.
Seized by a rictus of the wind,
the trees shed rain.
Rain slides down
Wale Street's sleek, steep fall:
air is an ocean booming round
high bare walls.
My hands freeze on
the bike's crossbar,
seek the sodden saddle, toy
with the ice-cold bell:
I am suddenly fugitive,
homeless and cornered in
a caprice of pressure and cloud
