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.