On Portland the heart-beat of the sea is ever present in the sound of the waves.
Alone, no sound but the sucking of the sea pulling the pebbles on the shore. Solitude peopled with the presence of the past, no longer tangible yet real today. Invisible, crowding and crying ‘come join us and be one with us,’ tomorrow must belong to those who follow after, make of it what they will. The sea will still be there, pulling the pebbles on the shore .
Portland has been my home for most of my adult life. It is a place of magic and mystery where some still remember the ‘little people’ who used to inhabit the stone walls of Southwell, (don’t mention the bunnies!). There are many stories just below the surface – one of a back dog that is known to run from north to south but never comes back; this a place where dinosaurs have left their footprints and skylarks sing.
In the beginning my published work was concerned with ceramics. As I worked with my hands my mind was filled with poetry and stories. Some found life on paper but many more have vanished. My delight was to welcome children into my workshop and share with them the magic of grownup mud pies.