Drawing Water
in Ga-rankuwa, thorn tree
country,
two writers teach teachers
to teach writing.
We ask what stops you drawing from the well?
I fear, fear that what I draw
will be brak, mud, bitter to
the tongue .
someone will judge my rusted bucket
and my handmade wire handle.
I hear laughter at my threadbare rope.
a child’s drops might be purer, sweeter to the taste.
I have seen seasons of drought.
a grey-head whispers of wells that dry up.
he cups his hands as if
trickling water through them.
then the still water one speaks
how in college days
a love of words led him
to dip into the life of a friend
and taste his fall and foretell his fate.
it happened. today the man is in jail
our conversation drops to deep streams.
how writers draw from the depths,
shadow and source.
how like wet-bearded prophets
in diviner guise
their rope of words raises
waters of tomorrow
and draws it to our lips.