Imagination

for Albert Hagenaars

Just after two, for seconds,

the bedroom curtains

of this French hillside farm 

lit up to reveal their flowers 

like puppets in a wayang show.

And yet, I did not hear 

the car I listened for, 

and could not but conclude

that its cones had taken aim

from miles away,

as they slowly swerved

over fields and hamlets,

across the hollow curve 

in the landscape,

while turning the driver

into a projectionist,

flowers into shadow art,

and me into a spectator

of theatre on light and dark,

cast from another continent.