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Sculpture Park, Arnhem
Overhead, the Hercules whisper loud that they have delivered their cargo, storks spilling strings of paratroopers from the Rapid Response Force... But it’s not the same. These lads are club-tattooed like Maoris and sweat with pleasure, swear for fun, land camp and stern-faced , as they run, gathering nylon as they go, towards the bemedalled elderly whose eyes are red-ringed like the mouths of mortars, now cooled by thin tears. The cabbage-fresh youths they are all here to remember, were once just chattering sparrows caught in the projection beam of virtue’s clarity…and were last seen swinging from the trees, to be crucified . Today the bumbled bluff of Bren gun blanks only rubber the September clouds, herring-boned with peace. Cellared sculptures gleam on the grass, rational ripostes to the excitement of war, that multi-coloured swap shop of misery. The Hercules wind pines for the deep in the forest where the cap badge bronze green skull of an elk stands guard over a sunny glade and points us all to the low red brick arches spilling with discarded pine needles. < back |
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