Four Renaissance Portraits iv , by Bob Elliott

             
The eggs are small this year, and very dear.
Butter is scarce, too, and the calves are sickly.
Last week my daughter died in labour.
How could we know it would be such a season ?


My tongue was a cherry in high summer
when we used to go by night to the meadows.
Tangled scent of grass pillows.  How the moon
fondled my nipples.  How he arched over me,
strong in the dark, dark as a forest singing.

          Old mother crow-chops sits by her stall,
          Waits for the price of bread to fall.



My sons ?  The last three on the right.  They were not tall
like their father was.  Our Mary ran away,
hid in the goat-shed, screaming.  I will take them home.
Their bones poke through.  They must have starved
for weeks before they hanged.


On springtime nights we skipped among apple-blossom.
danced round the evening fire, faces and hands
sticky with wine, with kisses; flooded with laughter,
swept with the fragrance of love and the petals.

          Old mother crow-chops squats in the hay,
          waits for the soldiers to go away.


How bright they are, the candles and the saints
and the children's song.  How bright the bell
runs through the quivering stones.
I have outlived regret
but the holes behind my eyes
hurt with daggers of love.
How bright the moon's tongue, bright the apple-flame.
My blood runs foolishly.  How bright
bright burning bodies are, and the glittering riders.

         Old mother crow-chops kneels by the door
         waits for the Christ-child to come once more.