Sunday, March 24, 2013

sculpture and naughtiness

Jen, you were dying.
We knew that

And I was about to head back to England
So it would be a proper goodbye
We all knew that

And somehow, I can't remember
who had the idea.
We cooked up a plan to go out 
to see
the sculpture by the sea

Not the easiest thing when
walking isn't an option
But it was sculpture, and it was 
by the sea
On the sand, on the grass
by the surf club.

So off we went, I think it was,
on a Monday.
Wheelchair from hospital bed
down to the car
Propped up on the front seat with
that special cushion of yours.  
In a hospital robe.
To the sculpture by the sea

Getting there, under the 
Norfolk island pines, we could see
a little from the road.  But 
not a lot.
We drove down a service road.
No Entry except for access.
Access to sculptures. Yes.

We talked about sculpture
and life and stuff, about people:
Bea and Libby
and Gus and Benj and the people 
at the bridge club.  
Convivial, like Jen.
Not deep or political that day, but with that
deeper understanding, unsaid:
We know why we are here.
Time is short.

And inching the car down and around 
Cottesloe Beach --
careful reversing amongst swimmers showering
and sea kayaks,
We saw a lot of sculpture. 

And gathered dirty looks:
    You can't drive here. 
Why bother explaining?
We laughed, defiant. Nothing to lose.

And that, the simple 
adolescent naughtiness
of seeing sculpture but the sea,
by car, while
living, while dying
Was our greatest pleasure.

Driving back to the hospital;
flying back to England:
became a cold silent shadow
of that bright moment.
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