Black Madonna
Scarred hands and twisted arms
Carved in ebony
Boy child
Created with the same ferocity
That replicated her beauty
Strong arms
Lift him to the passing throng
In a gesture taut with longing
Strong hands
Gnarled but strangely delicate
Fingers cracked by hard work
Holy infant
Made from the same hard block
Cut to create his mother
His hands are different however
Soft - reflecting the light
From the ring of votive candles
They are carved in white wood
The grain is faulty
Knots on the polished surface
Contorted like old wounds
The frail Franciscan Friar
Leans forward to kiss the rough wood
His face a mask of sorrow
Almost indifferent
I pause to light a candle
And sip some holy water
Before resuming my journey
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
15th. August 2012. - 12th. December 2012.
19th. July 2013.
This poem is a response to visiting the ancient Christian shrine of the Black Madonna of Willesden, North West London. The visit, my second since the image was restored, took place in August 2012, but most of the poem was written the following December.
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