A trinity of points frames the Virgin
Within a perfect, even triangle.
Her head is rimmed by a gilded halo,
Balanced by the rondel behind her son’s.

His adoring gaze rests on the mother,
Whose steady, fathomless look is outwards:
Too deep to meet; our eyes turn to the child.
And so the current flows perpetually.

No fingers gently entwined, their poised hands
Curve, bounding a circular paradox.
If the route to take is looped, to depart
Is always to return: the journey still.