THE HEPWORTH

by Robin Boothroyd

Not in an art gallery,
where you’d expect,
or in, for example,
a sculpture garden;
but strapped to a lorry
on the M25, southbound,
in the non-place,
the between-space,
in transit. We overtake,
and as we pass by I see
she placed a circular hole
at the centre of the shape
across which I sense
some sort of lattice,
strung like a harp,
cradling the sky’s blueness.

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