La Tempesta

Like an ancient bend

reclaimed by the river,

the absence of fear

is filled with its own memory:

the time you were carried

trembling up steps to a landing

to wait out a storm,

your mother soothing you

with stories, her hold serene

as Giorgione's madonna

who nurses her child

against a raging background,

the muted facade of a town

flashed into life,

clouds thundering grey-green

across what seems no end

of a night torn by lightning.

Your mother's face illumined

as you lean to her warmth,

even then slight, and cooling

as the seconds shut down.

The stairwell, a darkness

you imagine pouring

through windows and doors

that won't close, your feet

mired as time thunders closer,

chasing you back into nightmares

that sometimes wake true.

You, the loss of all you've owned,

recover the memory of mother

and child as if coming home,

as if love lies

where it was always pictured,

in the calm of the storm.

Even when love lies,

it's the dream you cling to.