Barbara Hepworth's Garden

After the rain,
I walk into her garden.
The grey clouds part,
and the sun shines.

Pools of water nestle
in cupped recesses.
I stroke the calm, damp shapes,
made of marble and bronze.
My fingers trace their curves.
I caress a rolling hill,
a deep cave.

I want to crawl inside
these egg-shaped forms
and hatch myself anew.
On the rooftop of her studio,
a fledgling seagull
takes his first clumsy steps.
His smooth-breasted mother
soars above him.

She's gone now,
left her garden,
her bold bronze squares,
her cool curved aura
her red roses
that glisten in the sun
after the rain.