《倏忽超卅》

— 寫於2010年，2026年小修 —

開普敦東引開普平原，西控大洋樞紐。往更東遠朓，可見峰巒起伏，橫阻天際。Stellenbosch建於1679年，開普敦外最老古鎮，位於峰巒底下，據守山谷進出要點，遂為探險與開拓之補給中心。由此入東，峽谷一片翠綠，植滿葡萄園，頗負盛名的南非紅酒不少出產於此，歸功於最早定居者，多為法國胡格諾教派人。1688年創建的Franschhoek，歷史僅次Stellenbosch。法裔匯聚此地，實因宗教迫害，以羅馬教廷為主的法國皇室不容新教改革，國內新教徒紛紛逃離，流亡新世界。早期法國人定居於此，淪落天涯，僅破布乾糧隨身。懷著虔誠信仰、勤勉與先進釀酒技術，奠定此區今日富庶。

又逢週六，欣然出遊。羊散牧場，遠山入眸。碧草連天，叢影見牛。雲落四野，起滅不休。心之所向，駕車以求。過Stellenbosch進Franschoek，又見小鎮，如昔街樓。萄園沿路，綠芽漸抽。兩旁林蔭，春色正柔。衣袖隨風，飄颺任由。久澱塵憂，總因心囚。而此出走，盡歸田疇。

路逢三叉，上週轉右。今日轉左，欲窺峰後。馳騁此意，轉道探走。瞥見路標，Viliersdorp。陌生城鎮，興起念頭。但見警誌，謹慎坡陡。遂減車速，慢駛心守。坡道緩升，路迴山岰。不遠能見，青綠幾畝。

路肩寬處，暫休取景。對焦趁時，快門瞬間。

翠染丘陵松入影，東皋沃壤春耕境；
峰巒漸峭近雲天，萬物根歸觀復靜。

大西洋遠在關山外，極目騁。思往事，卻侵冷。

憶昔荷蘭開普治，平原境外拓荒蠻；
原民對戰煙魂亂，無數可憐葬此山。

流離渡海來法裔，破釜沈舟篳路辛；
得主榮恩居翠谷，悲歡久釀化甘醇。

車復行，路又轉。隨雲零落，陰晴幻變。忽陡急上，彎過峰線。翠野山谷，身後難見。驟轉迴下，奇石迎面。巔聳壁危，崢嶸目眩。泊車路寬處，飲水心神澱。灌木叢枝茂，金橘野花遞嬗。地勢漸低，復行稍緩，弧彎隨弦線，愈駛離峰，盡處湖終現。

非湖也，標誌水庫為。或許無知，竟未見水庫如斯。壩欄何在，舉目望天涯，水鳥閒飛藍天一片，而我散步懷思。

遠途踏。青峯翠谷連天峽。連天峽。身欲何方。自問難答。
試探前路問津乏。識途認道無他法。無他法。油門一踩，倏忽超卅。

雙調四十六字，前後段各五句，三仄韻、一疊韻

李白

簫聲咽。秦娥夢斷秦樓月。秦樓月。年年柳色。灞陵傷別。
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樂遊原上清秋節。咸陽古道音塵絕。音塵絕。西風殘照。漢家陵闕。
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Thirty, Overshot in a Flash
— First written in 2010; lightly revised in 2026 —

The city of Cape Town draws the Cape lowland to its east and commands the pivot of the oceans to its west. Gazing farther east, one sees ranges rising and falling, barring the sky. Stellenbosch, established in 1679, oldest of the towns beyond Cape Town, sits beneath those ranges, holding the point of entry and exit to the valley, and so became the supply center for exploration and the opening of the land. Entering eastward from there, the gorge runs one stretch of green, planted full with vineyards; no small part of South Africas famed red wine comes from this ground, owing much to its earliest settlers, many of whom were French Huguenots. Franschhoek, founded in 1688 and second in age only to Stellenbosch, became home to many of these French Huguenots. That the French gathered here was, in truth, the work of religious persecution: the French crown, holding with the See of Rome, would not suffer the Protestant reform, and the Protestants of that kingdom fled in their numbers, into exile in a new world. The early French settlers made their home here, cast away at the skys edge, with only rags and dry provisions on their persons. Bearing a devout faith, diligence, and the advanced craft of the vintner, they laid down the riches this district enjoys today.

Saturday again; gladly out the door. Sheep loose on pasture, far hills fill the eye. Green grass joins heaven; in clumped shadow, cattle show. Clouds settle the four quarters, rising, dying, without rest. Where the heart points, the car goes seeking. Past Stellenbosch, into Franschhoek; the small town again, streets and houses as of old. Vineyards line the road, green shoots slowly drawn. Tree-shade on both hands, springs colors at their softest. Sleeves take the wind, streaming as they please. Dust-worry long settled — always the hearts own jail. But this going-out: given back, all of it, to the fields.

The road meets a three-fork: last week, I turned right. Today I turn left, wanting a look behind the peaks. Riding that impulse, I change roads and probe. A signboard glimpsed: Villiersdorp. A town unknown; a thought arises. But warning posts: caution, steep grade. So I ease the speed, driving slow, heart kept close. The slope climbs gently, the road winding the mountains folds. Not far off can be seen a few acres of green.

Where the shoulder widens, a brief halt for the view. Focus while the moment holds; the shutter, in an instant.

Green dyes the hills, pines enter shadow
— the east uplands fat soil, a scene of spring plowing;
the ranges steepen toward the cloudy sky
— all things return to the root: I watch the turning-back, in stillness.

The Atlantic lies far beyond the passes and the hills — I send my gaze to its limit. Thinking of things past — the cold comes seeping in.

I recall when Holland ruled the Cape, breaking wild ground beyond the lowlands bounds; war with the first peoples, smoke and souls in chaos — the pitiable without number buried in these hills.

Adrift across the sea came the French, cauldrons broken, boats sunk, the road-blazing bitter; by their Lords grace they dwelt in the green valley — grief and joy, long fermented, turned to mellow wine.

The car moves again; the road turns again. With the clouds scattering, shade and shine shift and trick. A sudden steep pitch up, a bend across the peak-line; the green wilds and the valley, hard to see behind. An abrupt turn winding down, strange rocks to the face; crags high, walls sheer, a jaggedness to daze the eye. I park where the road runs wide; drink water, let the spirit settle. The scrub thick-branched, gold and orange yielding to one another among the wildflowers. The ground eases lower, the driving slower now, arc-bends following their chord — the farther from the peak, and at the ways end, a lake at last appears.

Not a lake: the sign declares a reservoir. Or my own ignorance — never to have seen a reservoir of such a kind. Where is the dam wall? I lift my eyes to the skys edge; waterbirds idle across one sheet of blue, and I walk, and think back.

Far roads trodden. Green peaks, jade valleys, a gorge joining the skies. A gorge joining the skies. Where would this body go? I ask myself — no answer comes.

I sound the road ahead: I ask for the ford, and none to show it. To know the way, to tell the road — no other way. No other way. One tread on the throttle — thirty, overshot in a flash.

To the tune of Yi Qin E: two stanzas, forty-six characters, five lines each, three oblique rhymes and one doubled line — after Li Bai:

The flute-note sobs. Qin Es dream breaks under the Qin tower moon. The Qin tower moon. Year on year the willows color; at Baling bridge, the grief of parting.
On Leyou plain, the clear autumn festival. On the old Xianyang road, sound and dust are ended. Sound and dust are ended. West wind, failing light: the tombs and towers of Han.