A moth arrives at dusk. It settles, an open page on nettles. Then disappears.
Day time. Water droplets in meadow foxtail. Chimney sweeps rarely stay still. Daisies turn their heads to the sun, look every which way when it’s raining and blowing a gale. The river grows and shrinks.
The meadow and the valley have their own language and it comes in colour, light, movement, sound. It is a script of an order I cannot translate – all I can do is keep my senses open. Open for hours, for days. This has allowed me to read the place. And over time my own words have emerged. Some come as poems on paper, others arrive in the landscape, an overlay to its own wordless language. I have used shadows, pencils, hand-made paper, canvas. And in the river, I used water, stone and wind.