(for Barbara Hepworth)
Strong hands applied
with passion to
mute stone, turns
it into song.
A lifelong love
hollows womb-like
wood and stone
to beauteous lines.
Her place carved
into art’s memory;
the cost chiselled
into her heart.
Threads taut across
an open wound,
touch grief and
joy, her family.
In St. Ives church,
Mother Mary holds
her infant’s head,
to her cheek.
Barbara’s lost son
in Mary’s hands,
forever held by
a loving gaze.
History loves art
as monuments;
not counting pain
cut into stone.