Still Life

She stands alone against the nightscape Silent and still—like a portrait of serenity Painted by death’s cold hand. She dries the tears From her face. The virgin mother, full of shame. This weeping woman has turned away From the crucifix, a vermillion figure Under the cerise skies. Shapes lay stagnant In the water’s echo. The evening gloom Creeps in, to loom over the moor. Swathed by Leaves, twigs and dirt—the hue of burnt embers. The slit throat of dogma bleeds empty. Her shawl stained with lost reverence. The moon watches the woman from afar; Above the crucifix, behind the clouds, she glows.