Time
is the name we give
to those who had walked
on wet cement
in the past,

and thus never
abandon us
in the present.

Grasping them
is difficult.
Embrace, even harder.

The wind whistles through the pods,
like memory
in pixels.
It calls up resurrection
like an effigy by its name;
An aquarelle brings
a whole town into existence
- the drag-net being lifted -
from watery depths.

The tide is etching a CD
onto the floor
of a lake;
the concentric circles
of whirlpools

sing
in my fingerprint.

Translated by Charl-Pierre Naudé