Barbara Hepworth Considers the Visitors at Trewyn
They love to ask about the fire:
those scorch marks on my living room floor.
Or they sit in the garden hoping
an angel might appear
looking like me – red gingham scarf,
a chisel behind each ear.
The holes are where we meet –
for them, a weightless place of possibilities,
for me, the hollow of what’s missed –
the inside edge of stone, unpolished bronze,
sounds like the mirage of sea inside
a shell – an ocean of far-off moments.
And I want to tell them it’s as true now:
there is no fixed point
of light – everything still asks
to be touched, walked through.