A Poem a Day (619): The garden

The garden

‘Finding Trewyn Studio was a sort of magic. Here was a studio, a yard and garden where I could work in open air and space’ – Barbara Hepworth

‘A sort of magic’ is unearthed,
here, in this space, this embryonic bed,
a studio of colour birthed in energy,
art that explodes in wild, myriad furore.
 
We step inside crimson shape & etched form,
a bold green of ever blue, speak of the intangible,
will it to form in our hands what only we can feel.
Carvations of sleek limbs and solid blocks.
 
As the closed wings of a bird, Two Forms,
parallel eyes juxtaposed, poised opposite.
One peers out, the other examines within.
The wider seems to fix us in irony.
 
These seeking eyes fear to frame the world.
We step out in order to step in,
reside inside the outside of ourselves,
where we are as we never were.
 
Metal reimagines us in stasis, eternal action,
and here we are, deepest inside, turned.
Our reflections blossom within these other eyes,
big, bold expressions we have only yearned.
 
Lines within curves, intricate mazes repaved,
scooping out holes to show what is not there,
shaping the invisible, holding it in awe.
These ever-opening chasms seek order,
 
where our echo loses repetition, perforates,
and escapes to become something new.
Redrawn, we attempt to paper the gaps,
the pits, the flaws, the empty sides.
 
In this complete circle we exist as we stand,
formed out of cold stone, yet malleable,
exuding warmth, reinventing a sub-time,
our walls disappearing in shared energy.
 
We plant hardy roots into the snug earth,
bury our feet, so verdant, into the dirt,
absorbing Mother Earth into us,
and inside us she opens up her heart.
 
Streaks of silver half-light will shield us,
our worn hides, from time external,
all the losses, the weathered storms.
It offers this distilled, knowing glow,
bestowed in love, reinvention and peace.
And ‘a sort of magic’ brings us out.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, February 11, 2024