Unsteadily into the light
a bumblebee sipping nettle flowers
now in shatters on a field
her party dress partially burned
organza, silk tulle
becomes just another trope
for the scarred and sunken
sound of a whipping wind: is it not?
The debris of a wake
struck by the silence
alters the colours
gathers into sketchbooks
transplanting, repotting
scarlet geraniums
crowded, canned music
overripe pomegranate
artichoke thistle, inedible.
With her photos in black and white
no longer familiar
you see all these things
doodles of a child
mute stoical reportage
atrophied from disuse.
Says, the list just doesn’t end
the day she stopped trying
closing pine shutters
she keeps taking pictures
does not want to talk about it
like a mask, fabric lay on the table
the room bare, leaded-glass.
She too, has suffered much
chores seem to her
an unfair burden, she says
shuffling to the teakettle,
creating theatre with her
a genius loci –spirit of place
her mother’s house
paved with stones and mosaics
woman of forty odd
aged ten years overnight
reflected in the window
memories of her children
become invisible.
