Decorated in willow leaves
And painted in watery moonlight
That ran down her slender arms
Trickling trippingly off her fingertips
She held a child in her arms.
Nestled in her breast-
Grouse hidden in heather.
Hidden from the disjointed etches
The lonely artist has made of this life
The scratches that carve out
The crown and the cross.
But mother and son are born from
A different imagination.