Mother Stone

St. Ives is the bleached white Tate, the

hazy, colliding seasky blues and,

peeking through

gaps in grey monoliths,

the soft green of Hepworth’s garden.

 

This is stone

in conversation, composed

so the towers may whisper over the heads of their bulbous cousins

who are cut along the natural grain

so voices may slip across the ancient lines in their skin –

life is not kept in

our faces when she reduces us to pure movement;

the swelling outline of a mother’s belly,

a dancer’s pulsing form.

 

We are far from the flat-faced Madonna and Child –

clinging

holy –

we never realised we were

infant

detached, matching each other’s contours,

distant and close as art behind glass.

 

~Ruby Kelman, 2016

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