Oggend en aand met duiwe

Die lug is vol a priori-duiwe.
Oral waar hul is, wás hulle tevore.
Soos ’n droom wat spartel in die lug
is die dag,
met een hand gepluk
uit die flikkerende stroom, dan verdof dit.

Die huise teen die rantjie staan skraal geëts
in die vroeë lig, soos tekenplanne.
En die lug is vol a priori-duiwe
vandag, of miskien was dit gister.

Die nag, weer,
word bewoon deur post factum-uile.
Hulle fladder op en verf
met hul bromiedkwaste
die teenwoordige tyd bruin –
die heterdaad word roes.

Onthou jy die leë huis met die voetstappe?
“Mense van ’n vervloë tyd ...”
“Miskien net óns s’n.”

Deur die stroke van die blindings
skuif motvlerkoë oor jou lyf
in akkoorde;
onder somersproei bot die polkadot
in die bikini-boorde.

Vet soos nuwe konfytbottels
staan die dimensies op ’n ry.
Die helder vlakke stig kore
in die heuningkoeke
teen die steiltes;

die as stort in matesis.

Die lug word grys van a priori-duiwe.
En alle tyd skyn deur,
soos ’n fiets teen die lig.

© Charl-Pierre Naudé
Aus: Al die lieflike dade
Cape Town: Tafelberg, 2014
Audioproduktion: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin, 2015

Morning and dusk with doves

The sky abounds with a-priori doves.
Wherever they go,
they’ve already been.
The day is like a dream
wriggling in the air
when plucked with one hand
from the flickering stream.
And, then, its glitter dims.

The houses on the ridge stand bleakly etched
in the early light like scale drawings.
And the sky abounds with a-priori doves
today, or maybe
it was yesterday.

By contrast,
post factum owls inhabit the night.
They take flight
and with their bromide brushes
paint the present tense brown –
the immediate act
discolours to rust.

Do you recall the footfall in the empty house?
“People of former times ...”
“Maybe just ours.”

The light sifts through
the slat blinds and mounts your body
like the eye spots of a moth’s wings,
in musical scales;
under summertime spray
the polkadot burgeons
in the bikini arbours.

Brimming like new preserve jars
are the dimensions, standing in a row.
The pristine planes ignite choirs
in the honeycombs
on the inclines;

and the ash crashes
in numbers.

They sky darkens with a-priori doves.
And all time is translucent
like a bicycle
against the light.

Translated by Charl-Pierre Naudé