Any moment now, Buster Keaton is going to burst through the gap and charge down the hill on his bicycle. Either he will try to murder toddlers or the two grey butterflies crazily flying a half millimetre off the ground, butterflies which have quit beards for these more supple couplings, butterflies which we caught that battle day. Yes, he is going to murder the children but mothers will flay him with their tenderness, smother the angular birling man with their whale-like haunches. He will swing up above Burrell into the sky. 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.