There is a secret held in the substrate. And it whispers ‘wonder’ on a warm-wind-roll across the hills of the Overberg.
There is a pastoral church community cradled in these foothills. Children play and invent magical games in the yellow fields. And grandmother makes food on Sunday. There is no clutter only hearth. And there is an old soft spoken man who knows.
There is mastery at work. As he fixes gaze with a young boy across the harvest field, time slows; wisdom and youth bound in ambiguity across the intangible. The unease of their linear separation softened only by his poetry and presence. As he looks and dreams back and forth across the threshold of what was and what is to come, he knows.
He knows he is one and the same; both now and then, at once oscillating in some infinite loop. And he longs for return