Half masonry, half pain; her head
From which the plaster breaks away
Like flesh from the rough bone, is turned
Upon a neck of stones; her eyes
Are lid-less windows of smashed glass,
Each star-shaped pupil
Giving upon a vault so vast
How can the head contain it?
The raw smoke
Is inter-wreathing through the jaggedness
Of her sky-broken panes, and mirror’d
Fires dance like madmen on the splinters.
All else is stillness save the dancing splinters
And the slow inter-wreathing of the smoke.
Her breasts are crumbling brick where the black ivy
Had clung like a fantastic child for succour
And now hangs draggled with long peels of paper,
Fire-crisp, fire-faded awnings of limp paper
Repeating still their ghosted leaf and lily.
Grass for her cold skin’s hair, the grass of cities
Wilted and swaying on her plaster brow
From winds that stream along the street of cities:
Across a world of sudden fear and firelight
She towers erect, the great stones at her throat,
Her rusted ribs like railings round her heart;
A figure of dry wounds – of winter wounds –
O mother of wounds; half masonry, half pain.
Mervyn Peake, Shapes & Sounds 1941
Taken from Michael Moorcock’s Mother London