We sat languidly on our porch
While the sun blow torched the small Karoo town
A shimmering image appeared in the distance,
Treading the dusty brown path with an elegance
That defied the heat of the sun.
Closer it came,
Walking God-like on a mirage of water.
It was the Brit
In his best outfit.
Suit, collar, and tie
The finest that money could buy.
Imported from England, of course.
Money well spent, and without remorse.
Shoes mirrored the pebbles in the dust
Black brolly as a shade, precisely angled.
Coming to our braai
From his house nearby.
Thank you. No wine
Beer will be fine
Castle if you’ve got
Ice cold. Not hot
Sweat poured from his face
Gracefully mopped with a handkerchief
That brought little relief.
His Father had taught him to dress well
And he felt compelled
To keep up the tradition
Of being a well dressed Briton