Mother Mary is staring, looking at me,
In a Spanish grillhouse, in murky Tangier
Why is she looking? Why does she stare?
At my eyes, at my face, every strand of my hair.
The waiter is talking, chatting us up,
For an extra mixed salad, to increase the cost.
But a void keeps returning, accompanying her gaze,
To remove any comfort and put doubt in its place.

As thousands and millions of faces die young,
And the elderly rot from the heat of the sun;
A city is flattened with rising waves,
Exposing and opening the truth to your face.
But all of it stands detached from my eyes,
And to say that I feel it would be just a lie,
So as I sit down to chew on some meat,
I’ll feel her eyes burning and long for release.

© J. Grainger, 2004