Millais

Glopwrimo #22

Note- I have purposely presented the pair as mother and child, though to Millais they were two sisters, by taking poetic licence.

She hides in the fold of her mother's head scarf
Her blue skirt tattered and threadbare, worn, torn
She looks at the double rainbows, afar
(The sky still dark, though the rain gone away)
A rare sight, first-time seen; but breathes not to her
Mother, on whose scarf a butterfly fli(r)ts
To its soft texture and rich colour, drawn
Again invisible to its neighbour
The fields are golden and green-yellow with corn
The trees thicker green, and afar are houses and cottages
An accordion in her mother's lap is
Which she plays when in town to get money for them
There are sheep and cows in the meadows and further off horses
Nearby there is grass, brambles, wild white-lilies and there's the texture of the cloth
worn by her and the girl, the brown shades and the blacks
The beauty of the scene is so wrought
That we could gaze for hours at it
Trying to decipher each note, each bird, each sun's mote
(And feel our hearts' swell and our breasts' burst
And our eyes begin to moisten, in hurt.

Millais, if ever I met you I would ask
Why did you grieve me thus with such art?
So perfect in its eye for detail
Making us cry out, why is she thus?
And her daughter, peeping out from behind
Her mother's long head-covering, no word
In her mouth, as painting speaks through
Sight to the eyes, and to the heart
Not to the touch or the taste or the smell
Her boots showing she is meant to walk miles
With her mother, so they have to be a hardy pair
Such art makes us fall down and worship, after
We shed our tears; makes less of us, and more
Realising our treasures, and wanting to help
Those who are richer in some things like music but not
As fortunate in some other, like us
And where is her husband?
Or lover, or father
Or mother?
We become all that to her
We want to fill up the need in the small girl
And rush to their aid. What a painting!
We bless God who gave such power to man
To pictorialise such a piteous scene so well
And gave us the power to complete his art
By unlearning 'seeing' and the 'art' of thinking
By re-seeing and re-thinking on its depths and improving our selves
This poem began as an ekphrastic ramble
Forgive me if it meandered into sermonising
Real tears made me wax didactic
Forgive me, take what you can, and leave the rest.