A portrait of Virginia Woolf

Dropping off our daughter at your flat, I see

you’ve bought a portrait of Virginia Woolf.

It’s a picture of her I’ve not seen in years –

not since I read Vita’s love letters to her.

You can tell she was troubled, even in this;

almost feel the weight that would pull her under.

Like her, we share that unsteadiness of mind:

streams of consciousness deep enough to drown in.

But while you see only her photograph’s age,

I hear blessed spirits, dancing her to rest.