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.