Holman-Hunt's portrait is a masterpiece:
Jesus has completed a hard day's toil
as a carpenter appearing to celebrate
but there's a far away look in the eyes
and his mother stares in horror at his shadow,
a ghost vision of Jesus on the cross.
His arms are outstretched, the tools on display
references to that historic day.
The circular window acts like a halo
over the head of the Saviour,
parched hills of the Holy Land
sun-kissed in the background.
The crown of thorns is symbolised by
a red head-dress near his feet.
The painting has such an awesome power,
I picture the Lord...at his bleakest hour.
This is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most.