As the sun peeps over the peaks of the Hottentots Holland mountains, spreading golden rays across the waters of False Bay and lighting up the Peninsula in gentle autumnal hues, even the fire-blackened hillsides reflect a warm glow. Heavy seas brought to our shores by a cold front deep in the South Atlantic obscure the coastline in a fine mist, and here in Kommetjie the crashing of the breakers on the rocky shoreline is deafening.
The hadedahs arrived early this morning, their cacophonous call adding to the overall din, while the sacred ibis winged their silent way overhead. Swallows are gathering in ever-larger flocks to snatch the last insects from our skies in preparation for the long flight northwards, and soon they will be gone. The garden birds chirp in the shrubbery and welcome the new day, no matter what it brings.
Nature continues unfazed by events that touch it. The world continues to turn and the sun rises and sets in the usual way. Green shoots have already risen from the ashes and soon it will be only the blackened trunks and branches of trees that remain as evidence of the fires that have taken lives and destroyed dwellings in the last week.
Perhaps we need to re-examine our relationship with the earth by taking more care over where we settle, being mindful of the need for a barrier of safety between us and the elements. History teaches us that the greatest loss occurs when we live in inappropriate places - the foot of a volcano, low-lying land where tsunamis are a risk, steep hillsides in heavy rainfall regions. People still live in the tornado belt of the USA, rebuilding time after time.
As I write this, I listen to the sea not 100 metres from my house and not too many feet above the high tide mark and wonder about giant waves.
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