Portrait of the Artist’s Mother

Portrait of the Artist’s Mother

Portrait of the Artist’s Mother
Red over gold and under gold a wound
Whence life itself in blood and water flows,
A branch is broken but the tree still grows
The scar is over-layered with bark, a space
Which opens through the gold to blood-stained ground.
And now the wood itself presents her to us,
That wound above her opens out to us,
But cannot yet disclose its inwardness,
So she herself, beneath it, leaning out,
And looking past us is still holding in,
The singing soul still shining through her skin.
A different darkness and a different light
Kindle her eyes, which hold us for a while,
And see more sorrow than there’s time to tell.