Sunday morning communion
Vortex, 2 Dec 1999

early December Western Cape skies
me and Greg dancing under the vortex summer stars
everything was loud and clear that night
and the crowd danced on – as many, as one

and me and Greg opened between those marrowbone beats
gently breaking our hearts’ bread
sweetly sharing our minds’ wine
and Greg told me how he’d been teaching his son to pray

not with lists of requests or prayers borne of fear
but with prayers of thanks

with for-this-and-for-that thanks
with for-little-beetle-thanks and mighty-lion thanks
with for-Zenzele-your-baby-brother-thanks
and for-Lindiwe-your-loving-mother-thanks
with for-whatever’s-on-your-heart-or-mind-or-for-whatever-makes-you-thankful thanks
yeah, teaching his four-year-old son how to pray

for
said Greg
now grooving to his dancefloor theology
that’s who God is
that web of gratitude

yeah
my new friend Greg
teaching his thirty-three-year-old friend how to pray

and so me and Greg danced and thanked
that night away
bodies rocking and rolling
voices giving word to the grateful sounds within
faces nodding and smiling at our incremental joy

and Greg told me how
in the middle of the day
Lungelo had run up to him and asked him to pray
and there and then together they gave thanks for the sea and the sky and the sun
and all the fun going on

yeah, teaching his very own father how to pray

that night
gratitude picked me up and turned me around
shook my half-empty bottle inside out and upside down
married my bruised heart to a kinder, wiser pulse
shoe-horned new shoes onto my unsteady feet

that dervish December night
I finally got up off my knees and
remembered how to pray
rising with the summer Sunday sun
kicking up the dancefloor dust
raging, raving, praising
on this well, well, well-trod ground