Or the statues are going to jump up and run away over the damask plain, less innocent than his bicycle and the caramel saddle it does not have. Mists catch small bronze girls at the knee. Sculptures step on and off. Mother and child spin with the stillness of spinning tops at the centre, draped against the rain. Inside the Burrell the Pollok trees are growing.
Conkers drop through their cage of glass, chandeliers of leaves dusted with spotlight.
Outside is not outside and the statues, king and queen 1974, curvaceous couple and their curved child 1978, are lying nicely. Twigs on the ground, splinters of broken lance. She trips on the flex then birls head over heels into a stream. Water, Princess, sinking iron, stockingless legs and the man paddling his hands and trying to grab her back. Fingers grasp a piece of fabric.