In the Beginning

Marian Kilcoyne

In the room of ancient things
a small child bowls around,

a spinning top on new calf
legs. Pointing at Botticellis’ 
effort, emitting volleys of
staccato river flash words.
No respecter she, of the
reverent hush.
Renaissance and this moment
meld, and my four humours
sunder, melancholy pervading.
Having spent every drop of
passion in life, there will be none
left for the dying.