gathering, drawing, dyeing and stitching in Newburgh

on the banks of the river Tay in Scotland

in residence at Big Cat Textiles










tidal rivers have a magic all their own alternately hidden and revealed muddied one day, scrubbed clean the next in and by the river what is lost can be found the whole become broken and the broken whole troubles and sorrows washed away messages entrusted to the mud and tides faith replenished and spirits lifted while the river mumbles and murmurs by rising and falling slipping in and drifting out

slackwater and the river is quiet. brooding. fumbling about in a halfdark kitchen in the moment between sleeping and waking looking for a cup of tea. nothing moves. wandering about the mudflats i hear a sigh almost inaudible the still of the river ruffled by wavelets and the swelling sound of the turning tide first soft and slow then with increasing urgency the occasional splash disturbs the ripples and suddenly rain brings percussion to the riversong

a mudbanked log awakes lifted by the flow and continues its journey. up and back and up and back until it eventually beaches within reach of a chainsaw and its wandering dreams go up in smoke

i'm learning to read the river but nowhere near fluency yet