Where the grass sings

High in the escarpment of Mpumalanga (1500 kms from Cape Town), lies an area of rugged mountains where crystal clear streams tumble into wide, reflective ponds. There is a town called Mashishing – the place of the long grass. At this time of the year the grass is as dry as a bone after the long winter months without rain. As the wind shifts through the reeds, imagine the sheerest of songs, the rustle of spring, (with apologies to Sinding) as the sound flits and rises through arpegios of rising tones. Come, stay a while here and still the mind.

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14 thoughts on “Where the grass sings

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