This poem is taken from Stand 223, 17(3) September - November 2019.

Becky Cherriman Poem

After the sculptures of Giuseppe Penone,
Yorkshire Sculpture Park, 2019

The skin of tree is on the inside, the beginning
of its branches whorls of concentric circles, pushing out
through joints. Inscribed within my trunk
the signatures of people I have met are ripples in time
as well as space.

How we hang our experiences makes them more
than magnified fingerprints,
more than psoriatic bark.
We are not just seeing the tree but the air
around it, all these waves.
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