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I'll come back to this book
after reading a few more

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recent poems.

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And this first is
called "Ceremony."

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And it takes its
occasion from a moment

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of seeing a young Arab boy walk
through a cemetery in North

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Africa.

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As Adam said, I'm
from South Africa,

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so the sense of the
continent in its entire reach

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is something that's
been pressing

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on me since I was a child.

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In this case, the poem is also
reacting to my first encounter

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with Picasso's painting
of The Young Boy

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Leading the Horse, probably
familiar to most of you.

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"Ceremony."

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A small boy leads of white
horse out into the century.

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Cracked soil,
unnamed white stones

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past which the boy walks
loosely, carrying the reins,

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barely awake.

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Barefoot.

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No shirt.

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His body, the color of dust.

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The horse's head rises and dips
behind the boy's right shoulder

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and it could be blind.

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Something should
follow, but it's

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vanished further up the path.

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Call it the memory of peace.

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Then words as if
they were the last.

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Once prayers were cheaper.

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Once birds fell
silent as we passed.

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