To John Singer Sargent's painting I will add
a road, black tarmac slicing
through smoothly weathered stone.
A rental car, driver's side door
smashed in. The cool shadows
doused in red siren light
as they pull my father free.
Those silent houses that crest the hill
are now a mass of cautious spectators,
windows filled with staring eyes.
The silence that hangs there,
heavy on every brush stroke,
has become a din of shouting voices,
paramedics and ambulance noises.
Over it all, my sisters cries
echo back to me, through the canvas.
Her prayers flung so far from the holy land.