Anthony Blackwood


The Marble Virgin

Sprouting from a carpet of the lion’s flower,
Her grainy eyes droop and grieve,
For a child dead, stone white and cold,
Swaddled in her marble arms.

The moss grows in the scrolls of her shawl,
Green-black and sponged coarsely across
The nape of her neck and cowling in a halo
About the blanched oval of her face.

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