PORTRAIT OF MARIA TRIP
The gleam of pearls and amaryl you
everywhere discern here, and of gold. ‘I wear
rosettes too. I once saw how a lamb dropped
straight from a ewe; the miser makes my neck
– rising from the stiff lace like ivory –
a rather too sheeplike unwashed yellow;
the town and street so sunlit now and the faint flush
of rosacea he forced from the paint.
Deep in this canal house in oaken gloom
my eyes red-rimmed; have I cried?’
The sword hilt at her hand is not just there for show.
Courage and stalwart spirit fierce fend off decay.
I am the moth that sheers past satin sheen.
There’s lustre in her gaze that will not yield.