Poetry

(after N.P. Van Wyk Louw)
 
The hour-work becomes rigid
with no second hand that ticks on,
are caught up in an eternal moment.
The bee stays confused and puzzled
 
at a flower that is now lifeless and stiff
that does not open its buds and does not know where to aim
but still the flower remains attractive
and does never become a fruit, jam or ketchup.
 
Its eternally day
with rays falling from a sky that’s cobalt-blue
and on the beach the drops of the wave that is breaking shattering
remains in that thundering moment,
are caught in spray as if they cling to the pure air
as if never the wave could drench the rock.
 
 
[Reference: “Suiwer wiskunde” (Pure mathematics) by N.P. van Wyk Louw.]
 
© Gert Strydom