Trying her mortality on
to see if the garment fits...
Does a dying mother
recognise the visage of her child,
as a newborn infant
knows its mother's face?
This watershed, this great divide,
the arid other side...
Somewhere in grief's landforms,
life abides: the mountain
we would gaze at,
you inscribed as mother,
unborn child - prehensile
madonna, wild with flora,
fauna; fountainhead,
marker of a place bisecting
time and space, which now
are rent
asunder.
Can a scar
forget?
Birth wounds can heal,
but what
of death's?
Watershed
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110032801354
Свидетельство о публикации №110032801354
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