In the nursery, pictures taken of me.
Pretty blonde baby, and the mother who frowns.
With the lilies against her gown,
makes believe she's a painting,
or a single soft sound,
that travels through the chimneys and grates,
in a small Irish town.

Where the rain is like pieces of glass,
from a broken medicine bottle.
Where she is not of this world,
but a ghost in the rooms of another.

In the nursery the good aunt is holding me.
Pretty blonde baby, and the mother who lied,
to the father on a cold night, nine months ago.

Shades her eyes from the photographer,
swooping down with his camera,
bothering everyone,
who would take me to the nearest church,
this very minute to see that I am
shielded from purgatory.

In the nursery, pictures taken of me.
Pretty blonde baby, and the mother who frowns.
With the lilies against her gown,
makes believe she's a painting,
or a single soft sound,
that travels through the chimnies and grates,
in a small Irish town.