Anne Norman - Sculpture Park

Sculpture Park


Who is the master gardener

of this surreal autumnal sculpture park?

In hushed awe, I walk down avenues

strewn in gum and blackwood leaves:

fallen but not deciduous.


Timorously treading the soft beige

and copper peppered carpet,

past dark Herculean figures,

my senses reel before gaping jaws

of sinuous black forms;

a fluted baleen whale;

a lunging prehistoric head

with vacant eyes and flaring nostrils.

On every side, dismembered limbs

and languid bodies

recline within a toppled temple

of obsidian obelisks.


But the crowning glory

of this eerie sequoia world

are the tall black pedestals

spouting bright green ornamental fountains;

mature tree ferns silently, imperceptibly,

shooting forth their vivid fronds

above curlicue brown skirts.


I wander further

into a time-warped wonderland

of fallen gods;

through glades of tangled wiry hoops

and freshly springing bracken.

Suddenly, my feet subside

through scorched red earth

to hidden cavities below,

where combusted roots of gum trees

once held firm.


I kneel bewildered, giddy,

beneath a towering giant:

broad, powerful, commanding… mute.

Dwarfing the copper-headed forest,

it’s charred feet give way to pale torso

and white truncated, lifeless limbs,

still reaching for the clouds.

An ancient being;

now awaiting reassignment

in other roles and forms

within the master gardener’s

ever-morphing park.



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