The clockwork tilts. And the lightbrown bee
hangs immobile before the flower that never
will be quickened, seed, wilt, and grow beyond
this petrified hour. The air
as still as ice it stands, so white, so blue.
The breaker aching to arch, to fall, to foam,
remains held in its light circles
and must delay its sea an eternity.2
1 A translation from the original Afrikaans by N. P. van Wyk Louw.
2 Scaevola is indebted to his daughter whom he had to help with an assignment for reminding him of this poem. The translation does the original a disservice.