- Vol. 07
- Chapter 09
How sad, it's strange,
this binding of the eyes;
do we blame a culture gap
or does a mirror intervene?
What is this handed on a plate,
with cracks and poor exposure laid,
as if unwilling to explore
the negative portrayal made?
An image still and frozen held,
instilled, our mind’s museum piece,
but still displayed, as if to excuse.
How limited our sight has been,
how primitive horizons scanned,
and slaves to what we always thought.
This strange conjunction in one life,
as if congruency mismatched,
unsettled questions of report.
Gambian peers through cladding,
masked by cheap and cheerful,
that will do, a Babel tower,
don’t understand, diversity,
we’ll pile up there.
Palazzo, far pavilions,
diaspora in Venice met,
Biennale, art celebrate,
high rise above expected lore.
Near fifty I last Kettle’s Yard,
her work at home, re-opened doors;
Soar Abovenear twenty five, Saye, when she died,
floor twenty, Grenfell, soar above –
sore reach from tackling Rugby fields.
At least her will, a testament.