Her squinting eyes and puckered face

poised to paint beneath the branch

a wounded mouth, a gloomy cheek;

the greening leaves depend too much

and brush the gloves thrown on the path.

She knows those fingers, knows their past,

what poignancies they represent:

an empty clutch that fills the frame.

If canvas could but capture noise

and catch the rustle of a bush,

the rattle of a passing cart,

that stillness of a mother and child

ghosted at a window.