Rose Britten-Austin


After the death of my parents,
I wrote a collection of poems about my childhood.
These sculptures are a bronze incarnation of the poems.
Upon seeing my poems and sculptures, my sister Cici said:
-It's as if the children inside you are all freely dancing and
playing having at last merged with the seaside and
the old oak woods of our English childhood.




The pram, H:30cm

The bicycle, H:17cm

Three sisters and the pram, H:20cm








The swing, H:24cm

The sisters and the swings, H:20cm

Feed me! H:22cm


Cartwheels, H:12cm 

Hold on! H:14cm

Seesaw, H:11cm


Holding little sister, H:11cm

The tree and the child, H:16cm

Pushing the pram, H:14cm


Mother and child by the sea, H:10cm 

The cot, H:13cm



Blindmans buff,
standing on my hands.

Mummy's tears are
a well kept secret
behind black sunglasses
on the rusty park bench
on the other side of the green
village common.

I swing higher,
so my feet
block the sun
and the wind
my ponytails.

I pick my baby sister up
and hold her
as she wriggles
around and around,
her face full of dirty
pink chewing gum,
that's sticky
on her
small fat fingers.

I pat the dog
that barks
and runs
in circles,
jumps up to
catch me
if it can,
but it can't
I'm swinging
so high now
and so free.

I try to push
sister's pram
up the hill
but my arms
I'm too small
and she's thrown
her dolly away and is
howling, screaming tears!

But mummy's mind
is somewhere else
making up poems
or anxiety.

So I put
my arms
around the
trunk of
the old oak tree
and listen
to how
it sighs
and whispers.
How it tries
to comfort me.

As The sky above darkens
and someone's voice
- Time to go home
Time to run home Rosie