Eve
After he had created Adam
there was much discussion
on, What is Art? –What is Beauty?
I evolved in his mature period,
from a material more lasting;
the ivory of a rib could be honed,
shaped into something profound.
Maybe it was a dreamtime,
but I was aware of sounds,
as through a screen, saw
dust swirling, rising snake-like,
particles moving towards each other,
the form fell to the ground,
the wind died, Adam slept.
Next I heard argument, the whole
cosmos seemed involved:
tools thrown – everything in turmoil.
I saw an artist angry with himself.
I watched him destroy part of his first sculpture –
pull out a shining, white bone.
When he began again it was like a melody
of love played over and over.
And I, who had never lain
beneath a mother’s heartbeat,
would be forever in quest
for the taste of this fruit.
Frances Sackett’s poetry has been published widely in magazines and journals in the UK. She was a tutor in Poetry for the University of Manchester’s ‘Courses for the Public’ for six years, is a founder member of Marple Writers and took part in a project to write poems about Manchester Cathedral in 2016. She recently came third in The Pre-Raphaelite Society’s Poetry Prize.
