The Annunciation, c.1500, artist unknown
A window to a world of marble halls,
mottled stone, clear
fountains, old books when they were new.
Mary sits in a garden, pristine,
flowers too clean to grow from earth:
there must be well-washed sand
or white flour sifted
beneath.
Who dusts those airy cloisters? Who
does the weeding, and makes the floors gleam?
Cupid and Psyche's invisible servants,
dragged into Christendom?
No.
Sorry Gabriel—you got the wrong virgin
Mary's round the back with a dustpan and brush.
And the holy child that she will love and bear and bring to birth
Plummets not to flowers but to rich, warm earth.
A window to a world of marble halls,
mottled stone, clear
fountains, old books when they were new.
Mary sits in a garden, pristine,
flowers too clean to grow from earth:
there must be well-washed sand
or white flour sifted
beneath.
Who dusts those airy cloisters? Who
does the weeding, and makes the floors gleam?
Cupid and Psyche's invisible servants,
dragged into Christendom?
No.
Sorry Gabriel—you got the wrong virgin
Mary's round the back with a dustpan and brush.
And the holy child that she will love and bear and bring to birth
Plummets not to flowers but to rich, warm earth.