Table Top

I present you with the facts. The measure is eight thousand and forty-eight point two miles from the cricket field in West Sussex, England, (where the two men played together for the same village side during the summers), to the top of Table Mountain. The rotating cable car travels some nine hundred and ninety-one feet from Tafelberg Road to the plateau, itself three thousand, five hundred and one feet above sea-level. It was Easter Sunday, 2009. The men were standing admiring the misty view over Cape Town and out toward Robben Island, each supping a glass of Castle lager. One was supposed to be studying sharks off the Durban coast, seventeen hours and fifty-nine minutes drive East-North-East. The other was the guest of his South African teaching mentor, based in Benoni, some fifteen hours and forty-eight minutes drive distant, northward. The fisherman had travelled by cable-car to the mountain top. The trainee teacher had clambered up a challenging route from the road, that took the best part of an hour in the increasing heat of morning. The latter, on gaining the summit, had texted the former, by way of hello to his team-mate who he thought to be in Durban. He was feeling a tad smug at having climbed to the top of Table Mountain. “Just arrived at the top of Table Mountain.” he messaged. “So have I. I’m having a beer in the bar.” came the reply. That was the last time they met each other anywhere.

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n.b. NaPoWriMo 2024. Day 3 prompt. Surreal prose poem.

CLP 03/04/2024