The Marrow

The Marrow

Michelle O'Sullivan

There's a gleam to the trees and meadow 

 that verges on something heartsick; 

convent quiet, 

 and rich as a jeweller's window. 

Facing the lake-water is your bull. 

 He's concentrated and arcane, 

his Dutch yellows make him look mild; 

 you think he sings to himself. 

Like you, he seems to have had 

 a grasp of what it was to love. 

What it is. 

 And he's lost it.