Suspended from a ceiling hook, the graceful form
Of one of Gego’s wire polyhedra turns
With agonising slowness; I stare with fascination blank
Uncertain if the room itself has started to collapse
Or the constellation of rotating lines
Is breathing in its own expanding space.
If Turing turned up one windy August afternoon
To watch the Hunslet rugger lads
So boisterous in yellow hoops and yelling incoherently
A swarm by unseen wires bound,
That crossed the pitch in hot pursuit
Of that erratic wayward ball, perhaps he would
Discern the patterns that the boys could never see. The eye
And ear and memory perform a dance too intricate
For dreaming silicon to orchestrate.
The hanging structure casts no shadow, it could
Be anywhere from half a yard to half-a-mile away; and
As I gaze with hypnotised serenity, the colour of the
Lines begins to change. Unreal veneers of green and blue
Arrive at random on the wire cage, as though
To hint at what the artist could not say.