I was hoping to see an angel
but all I can see is the moon.
The perfectly round white shining
disc in the sky stares through the window.
Moonlight fills and swills around
my early morning head like sea-water.
It – the full moon of Leo – bathes
the abandoned streets and squares of Bruges.
It might paint white cows and horses
in fields of neighbouring villages.
Perhaps the poet laureate of Damme
is turning in his sleep
and a pair of tipsy Antwerpenaars
are lurching home from sleazy bars.
With one more wheel before or behind,
that moon would be a bicycle
rolling nowhere across the black night sky,
without a rider or brakes.
From left to right it goes, throws
a bowl of mystery into my soul.
Past the tallest branch, with a smile
on its face, it heads off into space.
It may be meditating in a way.
Has it got something to say?
You can never be absolutely sure
what the full moon has in store.
This magic moon has had me in its power
for more than an hour.
Am I a lunatic? I can’t take my eyes
off that circle of light.
I lean back in my chair, gasping for air.
An angel ruffles my hair.
Lunar energy is free, and it has
the effect of strong black tea.
Thank you, O moon, for the company
you have kept me since half past three.
My batteries are charged for the day ahead.
I’m glad I left my bed.
The moon is balanced on the roof
of the house next door, about to sink.
Watching it disappear, I ask whether
it’s necessary to think.