Dropping off our daughter at your flat, I see
you’ve bought a portrait of Virginia Woolf.
It’s a picture of her I’ve not seen in years –
not since I read Vita’s love letters to her.
You can tell she was troubled, even in this;
almost feel the weight that would pull her under.
Like her, we share that unsteadiness of mind:
streams of consciousness deep enough to drown in.
But while you see only her photograph’s age,
I hear blessed spirits, dancing her to rest.