In the Image

Fragments of the image
shock the paving.
A bend of knee,
fold of robe,
part of a protruding foot,
cupped hand with wrist and forearm.
The head still perfect, peaceful,
lying on a long-lobed ear,
a shoulder softly draped.

Chunks and shards of  –
what is it?
Not clay,
not wood,
not metal.
A composite of sorts,
a broken jig-saw now,
form fixed
still in my mind.

I wrap and place
each piece
in cardboard box and search
for a replacement
for a year.
And find one.  Identical but
not the same.
The life is just not there.
So

armed with superglue
and putty hard as nails
I start.
First, pieces of the base
which must be strong.
Creation will depend
on its firm seat.
Once together, folds suggest
that knee, robe, toe
must fit in here

and straightness rises
round the back,
becoming sturdy,
stable once again.
A shoulder may fit here
but needs the strength
below
of arm
and cup of hand.

The broken shards
must find their place
or nothing will fit well
and wind
will whistle through
this shaken form.
They find
and fill
each space.

At last
I place the head
above the mended chest
and hold it still,
make sure it firmly mends.
Then lift my hand
to find he looks at me
through eyes half closed
on knowing

and see in him
some mending in
my heart, and feel my back
more straight, in line,
my bones more long,
my flesh more strong,
my skin more firm and safe.
His mind, a moment,
mine.

October 2018