after A. Tarkovsky
I was born of cold hands
in the light of the cells.
I left the arms of my mother
to find reeds and smoke of the steppe.
In spring by the birch
a man, huddled close, said
‘My blood abides in me and I in him.’
He led me to Vladimir
where I saw the fingerprints of angels.
Women selling their hair.
I walked in rags at thirteen
where Danil washed my brush before the Guild.
The old Father said, ‘Here is your key and bread.’
I learnt to mix paint on the cabbage board
found the mesh of gold and psalms.
In the evening, without altars,
stars gathered stone and thistle.
After the fall of snows
a letter came from Theophanes.
Come to Moscow, paint from St Luke and Paul.
I roamed blue shadows at the edge
of commons. My brothers —
Despite the gnaw of vanity
I left for the Great Commission.
In the city, Theophanes
taught me the colours of Byzantium.
‘Feed my dog! Feed my dog!’
He climbed the scaffold
to paint jewels of yellow and black.
Above my stool, icons coloured
the Greek’s sermon.
‘If Christ returned to earth,
they would crucify him again.’
Beyond the cathedral, among snakes and geese
I fell on the earth in judgement.
The image of Judgement. In order —
Mud wet my cheeks, I raised my head.
All I could do was finger the oil, take glue off the fire.
The Tatars rode in, a summer siege.
I took the arm of a mute under panes.
She was a Holy Fool, rabid and starved,
but she loved me, I believe she loved me.
The air was of midnight blood.
Doves in the mouth of dogs.
‘Where is the gold? Where is the Prince?’
I took up an axe against them. Raised a fatal cut.
In the gag of murder, we waited, still,
for the bruise of morning.
Long years enveloped my view
of the holy track. I took a vow
of silence at confession:
‘Hear me Lord. Let me loose in your chains.’
My heart fell to a stone
as famine muted the settlements.
Rotten apples, old horsemeat,
even the monks eat mice and straw.
In a pocket of cool air
under eaves, I knelt to pick
an apple core for my cheek.
I rubbed its seeds at my skin,
blinking at summers lost
to the high rooms of birds.
To the north, new ascetics,
under commission for the Prince’s bell.
Boriska and his band, dirty, enslaved,
dreaming a summer blaze.
I stood at the edge, undone,
while they dug the pit, split the tree,
poured the Prince’s silver.
Will it ring for the boy’s head?
Will it toll the baptism of Rus?
Thousands gathered for sound
or fare. I searched the crowd for Boriska.
Voices slit from below.
‘The rope is tangled. Cut the rope!’
I wanted to be let below.
When the bell rung out its call
broke hills into pockets
of dancing. My tongue —
Boriska fell by the wood.
My heart, the leper, fell into a basin
of cool water. The boy’s face was in tears.
‘My father was mute. It was me alone!’
I knelt to finger his hair, finding words
from below. ‘Stand. Come with me.’
Hills will ring again.
Nathan Dunne is the author of the memoir When Nothing Feels Real (Murdoch Books, 2025). As a journalist and critic, he has contributed to many publications, including The Washington Post, The Atlantic, The Boston Globe, The Guardian, Slate and Artforum. He lives in Sydney.