Picasso

An earthquake, and another
to remind him of the first; another,
and the lop of his stomach,
the floor sucked out of it, shaken;
and slices of life hang,
speeding towards a falling earth,
the temper of the bounce back tremor,
the ripple, and a sudden absence of curves.
Then the womb in the hills, his mother
giving birth in a shadowy cave,
angled walls, a diamond treasure,
a sister in pigment before bedtime.
Dreams shape a collage of resurrection, waking
to a lifetime, colouring out in the shade.