A Moment with the Maid

Grasped in furrowed hands

The clothes are wrung waterless

And hung in Transkein hot wind

By arms reaching up to high wires

Plump brown antennae

Over the exuberantly coloured cloth

That wraps her

The berg wind carries her Xhosa song

Gathering the smell of lawn and linen

To the young white boy sitting on the steps

Behind the prefabricated house

That pretends it's in suburbia

Or anywhere but Umtata

She hangs his Superman t-shirt

While he crashes plastic trucks