Alles kan so skielik aan die vlam gaan – ek hou
skaars by by die rooie, die verbrande bruine,
verskillende terra-cottas. Siënna. Estaties opvarende
groene wat daaruit voortkom – 'n groen wat lyk of dit bloei,
maar ook blom. En die bome, in die agtergrond
die bome staan eers afgetrokke soos ikone, dan weer verstrengel
en vervleg. In wat? Met wie? Ek sien al dae lank

'n mank man met 'n engel stoei. Daar is water naby, ek
ruik dit, 'n mens sou dit kon verbruik vir heiliging.
Maar die fries geboë nonne bind hul wimpels om hul wit
gesigte vas en hou hul ver van my. Ek wou nog inkyk, daar,
wat aangaan in hul oë. Moontlik visioene . . .

Everything turns to flame so suddenly – I can
hardly keep up with the reds, the burnt browns,
the various terracottas. Siënna. Ecstatic green flares
rising from the red . . . a green that bleeds
but also blooms. And the trees, in the background,
the trees at first appear abstracted like icons,
then twined again, and braided together.
Into what? With whom? For days I’ve seen
a cripple and an angel wrestle each other down into
the browns of an earth. In the far invisibility
something shimmers – there must be water nearby,
I can smell it, one could use it to sanctify.
But the hunched nuns tighten their wimples
around their withdrawn faces. They lower the lids
on their eyes. And I had wanted to look into the hoods.
Scrutinise the unseen. There must be browns there, even
possibly, blue. Visions, maybe . . .