A ‘she’ emerged in response to one of the Spring Fling artist’s work, Denise Zygadlo, her studio I dropped into on-route before the festival began, as well as with those taking the bus tour. At the time, she handed me a tiny folded poem in a matchbox drawer, words to walk away with. So much precision stitched into a moment, so many notions of ‘her’ woven into the work.  I’ll be performing the piece within a solo show at Wigtown Book Festival- ‘This Impossible Rim’




Those shoes that were “slippy on Marley tiles”

In answer to D.Z


Her room is

A windmill of intention

a bone-cold calm and curved

whitewashed clay, and today

the work is woven into everything


She keeps herself threaded into constant wonder,

Falling stillness, sun bubbling beneath

The full face of it,

Her gentle eyes beaming


On parchment, a pencil thread

Stitches lace through lead

Hitching who we are to knotted cloth

Pointing to an endless seam


Her breath, crumpling like paper

creased into the drawer of her body

stays within her, is held shut

a handle comes loose

in her palm, she walks on

with the only way

to open things up again