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.
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