There were two yellow houses that obscured the view.
Behind though glimpses of a road, green hillside,
distance, stillness so far that the air stood quivering.
And suddenly there were some persons there, in red jerseys.
It passed so quickly that they were forgotten,
returned though as a fragment from a contest
with end and start both hidden just as hopelessly from view.
Cyclists in an unclear section of the race, devoid of context,
so that the first could be the last or vice versa.
Only existing as long as not concealed from view.
Then there was a train that passed, with all its windows open
throughout the summer: a stronger memory, stronger time.
What an open landscape, roads, waving hands!
And when I looked up from my book the windows were all dark,
with curtains fluttering inwards from a voiceless gust of wind.
I looked and I looked. It could have lasted an eternity.
And understood that of such stuff all days are made.