Readers are asked to send a note of any misprints or mistakes that they spot in this poem to support@standmagazine.org

This poem is taken from Stand 225, 18(1) March - May 2020.

Hilary Hares Two Poems
Hepworth

The garden is small,
its light infinite.

Viewed from the white bench
against the white wall

curve meets angle at a point
of perfection,

each piece completing the space,
the sun footlight and spotlight.

Here, her talent showed stone
its true self until she, too,

was recast by the furnace
into something elemental.


Displaced

She was a Polish Red cow
with a coppery hide,
who fled from certain death
on a run-down farm.

She crossed the border
into Belarus, headed
for the forest’s strength
and shade where  

a menacing clan stood,
huge in tattered coats,
stared with hidden eyes
from under clotted brows.

This was not her tribe,
their bison language
strange to her ears.
She lived on the edge,

learned to stretch her stride
to match the running herd,
watched as they scraped
for moss beneath snow.

They slept where they stood,
cold biting into bone,
spectral wolves circling closer,
closer, mad for blood.

She weathered the rut,
survived until spring; died
giving birth to a stranger
who outgrew her womb.

This poem is taken from Stand 225, 18(1) March - May 2020.

Readers are asked to send a note of any misprints or mistakes that they spot in this poem to support@standmagazine.org
Searching, please wait... animated waiting image