sycamore

I walked to this tree on the shortest day of the year last December, and found myself standing by its side on the longest day this June. I'd not planned to do this, but found I'd measured a half turn of the Earth by my pilgrimages on foot to this tree, a sycamore.

finds

Last month I went off for a walk after a succession of rainy days. Top soil had been swept from woodland pathways revealing rich pickings of the domestic pottery shards that delight me. I've found these many times before on a particular path near Scarthin Wood, but on this walk they shone from pathways I'd never gathered from before. I kept them in the collections I'd found them, placing the muddy finds in different sections of my backpack.

I'm drawn to these worthless shards, were they a preferred bowl, favourite cup of a father or son, were they handed down from a mother to a daughter, precious, part of a wedding gift? Was anyone heartbroken when they shattered? Can I sense an echo from who held them? Who raised cup to lips, clattered a spoon scrapping the last morsels of porridge from them? The past in the present, a ceramic trail, reminding me of Hansel and Gretel's attempt at retracing steps, staying safe in the wood.

I'll paint these in their families, recording their cracks, breaks, pattern and decoration in watercolour and pencil. Devoting my full attention while I fix their likeness to paper.