It’s not every day the river
offers up a bucket but here’s a pail,
pale blue. For an hour we fill it
with the river’s clutter, handles, pipes,
blue and white china, tumbled
glass, a cap badge.
Loaded, and we stink of mud, we turn to go
back along the beach but the beach has gone.
The tide’s sneaked up behind a bend
close by us, slip-slapping on the river-wall.
It snaps at your red boots,
and since you are a metre tall,
its hunger makes me also feel small, endangered,
startled as an animal, driven to scale
the weed-hung wall.
You swing yourself over the parapet
and pointing to the bucket in displeasure,
chatter like a marmoset. I have it, yes,
but to follow you and bring it too
I’ve jettisoned the best
part of your treasure.


Performed at the Homage to Hepworth on 10th January, 2013, Kate’s poem profil perdu after Hepworth’s Two Forms Divided Circle, originally a sonnet, has been shaped and can be watched as it disappears, on the