Light. Holy Mother of God, head
Showered in gold. Light. Holy Mother
Of God, swathed in rich folds, red,
Ripe as blood. Light, thrice hallowed. Another
Look, and the humble faithful reap through grace
A vision of the shining Son. But when I scan
From the hem of her robe, stiff-plied and piled, in place
Of effulgence there is only reflection. I can
Read the image: a shrouded fifth colour of gilt,
Byzantine, stylised, a recondite architectonic.
It’s a shallow version, though, sheepishly built
On two-dimensional surfaces, a sardonic
Best guess. I analyse as a beast ruminates;
They understand whom the Icon first illuminates.
Showered in gold. Light. Holy Mother
Of God, swathed in rich folds, red,
Ripe as blood. Light, thrice hallowed. Another
Look, and the humble faithful reap through grace
A vision of the shining Son. But when I scan
From the hem of her robe, stiff-plied and piled, in place
Of effulgence there is only reflection. I can
Read the image: a shrouded fifth colour of gilt,
Byzantine, stylised, a recondite architectonic.
It’s a shallow version, though, sheepishly built
On two-dimensional surfaces, a sardonic
Best guess. I analyse as a beast ruminates;
They understand whom the Icon first illuminates.
(9.10.1996)
