Self-Portrait as Dryad, No. 5
After Andy Goldsworthy’s
Sweet chestnut green horn
continuous spiral
each leaf laid in the fold of another
stitched with thorns
Yorkshire Sculpture Park, West Bretton
9 August 1987
. Thorn-pinned, the leaf horn
Sang of silences to trees,
. Praising blossom-blow,
. Calling green-lit morn
And me. Song was meant to please
. Yet to let me know
. He who made the horn
Played to pluck me from my tree.
. The carrion crow,
. Creaky as a worn
Hinge, cawed as the canopy
. Quaked and let me go.
. His limbs are hawthorn
Flowers, white, a bed of ease.
. Mine are melting snow.
. Now that dreams are shorn
And heartwood betrayed by leaves,
. Only grief may grow:
. Better never born
Or dead than severed from trees—
. Breathless in barrow.
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Breathless after reading. Beautiful, Marly.
Lovely. It reminds me of Hopkins.
beautiful
i’m always ensnared by the music in your words
and this one breaks my heart
Marly, Andy Goldsworthy’s work has always spoken to me too, and this beautiful poem is a perfect song to come from that mute, astounding horn. Thank you. I hope you sent it to him; if not perhaps I will send him the link and a note.
Sitting here surrounded by my winter naked trees, I can now imagine the sound of sleeping dryads nestled in the trunks and branches. You’ve given them a real voice, Marly. Thanks.
Blake– it reminds me of Blake. “He who made the horn”–resonant in just the right way, subtle, suggestive, mythic and musical.