Born — 2025
Together, with all the love and care,
forms are born — one by one.
Found objects selected carefully,
born from paintings in my mind,
from the circling surface of the ocean water —
its constant rippling, shimmering
in the evening light.
Born from summer grass,
dried and bent,
trodden under my solitary footsteps.
Walks in the field,
blankets thrown down to rest,
to look up at the clouds —
born from clouds,
born from what’s beyond them,
and the dreams held within.
Born from the space between my eardrum
and the landing of the rain —
that distance, that instant,
the melody of its fall:
landing on treetops,
branches and rooftops,
sliding over ledges
to hedges,
the sudden lift of bird wings
flying for shelter.
Born from the streets of London,
from waiting for the tube,
the blur of the window seat,
looking out at the stars —
somewhere between, somewhere over
Greenland,
snow-covered mountain tops.
Born from Monet’s torn canvas,
from the brush pulled from the water.
Born from Rodin’s hands,
chiselling light from stone —
or Brancusi’s touch,
lifting it whole from the earth.
Born from the River Seine,
reading poetry,
George Sand,
listening to Chopin.
Born from holding your hand,
walking in step with yours.
Born from the ballet dancer,
the étoile herself,
each step, each stretch,
each pirouette.
Born from Chagall’s whispers —
the whole catastrophe,
his sorrow,
his love.
Born from missing my mum,
always missing my mum,
even before she passed.
The longing.
Born with it built into me,
longing for what isn’t there,
longing for what wasn’t.
Born into hands.
Born into making.
Born into love,
and from love.
With my hands,
I pick up the clay,
I pick up the stones.
One by one.
Born.
