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.