The garden and sky are dark and still, before the dawn
begins to pick their shapes from shadows. It must have been cold
– cold the way shock and grief and sleeplessness make one
cold no matter what time of day or year it is.
To have come upon the grave, empty -
after everything else.

The balm has fallen useless at her feet.

Asking the gardener at least was something to do,
something which might have lifted the nightmare,
however hopeless the question.

Did he answer? Or was looking up
enough? The face at last, perhaps the eyes revealed
that it was he - discovery a piercing hope?
Did she cry out or simply move involuntarily
to touch that hand, again, which knew her own so well?

And was it hard to stop her
when so much had been endured
and relief so almost touching close?

We cannot know.

But possibly Rembrandt, despite the light,
which almost hurts in its intensity,
surrounded by the dark and looming trees,
has given neither face much joy:
stern restraint; and hands, lifted, held back;
eyes dark with sorrow
within those radiant faces;
bodies curved towards each other
at the moment
when touch must be transformed
and be something much less certain.