I broke the back of a
statue, a curved thing
stained with air, in the
garden near the glass-
house. Turned my head
to follow the slope of it,
and the whole dynamic
of the piece collapsed
around me.

Erect, the glint of the
metal brought me back to
the position I was at when,
eager to shift, I lifted my
eye from the steel to the
drifting of dry light;  from
a substance to a feeling.

Later, in a square shop
near the harbour I saw a
canvas leaning at the
door. It was a Lowry that
gleamed in the low sun
coming off the sea. The
colour in it reminded me
of the verdigris on the
statue in the garden
which I’d turned my head
from and broken the back of.


John Gimblett
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs




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