W.M. Tidmarsh
Epstein's Lucifer
(Birmingham City Art Gallery)
Talk in the schoolyard of his splendid prick
First sent me to the gallery to see him.
Wartime, no power for lighting and the dim
November sun was filtered by the thick
Skylights. Convent girls, giggling in the haze,
Milled round the plinth, I did not dare draw close.
Turning away all I recalled were those
Enormous gentle hands, that exile's gaze.
I saw him for the second time last week
In the same gallery, now brooding on
Three matrons taking tea beneath his wing.
His hands are baffled still, his eyes still seek
Some hope of hope. They're out to have some fun
And slyly glance and giggle at his thing.
Page(s) 43
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