From the spoil heaps of the redundant gold mines,
when the wind blows, the dirt blows always
over Soweto. In a flapping marquee
at the end of a street, the wedding took place.
Aperitif nibbles became gritty,
paper cloths grimy, the cutlery
silhouetted in grit. There were many
speeches – long before guests ate the freshly
slaughtered lamb and even longer before
the singing and dancing. The hired canvas drummed
with hope, humour, courage, enterprise, joy.