LATE FORMS Poem by Stefan Hertmans

Just that one cloud we saw,
in nothing ever resembling anything else,
suddenly appearing like a funnel above the hill
umbilical pink and deep purple, veined and hollow,
a barrel full of evening wind and menace,
probably a few miles wide,
an enormous oyster drifting in time.

Could I from such a distance see the spot
where, years ago, you and I lay entangled
on a wooden bench, in breezy spring
and bright white light, waving young leaf,
capricious forms, a forest path
blindly leading to a face;

perhaps I could have briefly
seen that cloud appear, even
then, in your dreamlike deep;

for nothing betrays an old force
so much as being silent and disappearing.