[after a painting by Nathaniel Nemo R.A.]
A sudden rush of rustle from within, (under?)
the folds of cobalt plaster
(or was it alabaster?)
and a holy child reached out a tender hand
for a greengage-coloured fig
uncomprehending its stolid & static
inedibility.
Yet too young to be
in search of the miraculous,
he replaced the fruit
in ripening disdain,
retreating inside (beneath?)
the fading blue of sculptured dress
in wonder
(or was it distress?)
A sigh – the Madonna or the clothes she wore?
A cry – the virgin mother or the child she bore?
After time’s arrow lodged a precarious bull’s eye
in the dartboard of The Three Kings,
a diligent archivist
chipped away at one of the figs
to see if its inside were red
to match the sea.
A tiny square of dry parchment
unfolded, fluttered to the floor.
Written upon it was the Word –
the Invisible word.
And the word was law
(or was it lore?)
Julian Isaacs