Collaboration Spotlight: Carole Webster & Adrian Evans

Adrian Evans, ‘Arichonan 1’
Adrian Evans, ‘Arichonan 2’
Adrian Evans, ‘Arichonan Wayfarer Seafarer’

 

The risk is
calculated: the
number held and

the cancelled
digits touch
the grey sea

null of
drift and away –
beyond those finger

tips and
slips
you have

failed
to grasp
the

transformation
you looked for. We
can barely

see your
wrist bones, a
bird flight and

you are
too young
for such

distance.
I can see
a dark

line across
your palm
it was your thin

mark on
life, a shadow divide –
your hand

on the
cave wall
is virtual

and every mother
one of us would
despair to take it:

palm to palm
thumb to thumb
fingerprint to fingerprint

we see, we
feel, we know. I
am ashamed.


Carole Webster, ‘a bird flight and you are too young for such distance’

bell blow
from the kirk
told and telling

it is a short iron
call cold wrung
through the glass

less window and
the sky sings
with scribbled rain; so

wave work prints
plying
grey stone walls-

overlaid slivers
and skived sharp
like shoes without

soles and it
steps light
and shadow

against that
house sheaved
in late yellow

summer grass
where voices their
inter graced

notes; descended
feathers – all we
say is air

and our words
fly from mouth
to earth to sky

the silver ones, so
herring gathers: the finger
ring cast in

salt a whiteness a
kindness
whorled into

the sadness of
you along
straight bones,

you loved
you wept
you said

such words
across and entered,
you spelt yourself

and she read
you utterly and
truly the making

and the leaving
it is all here
in this roofless house.


Carole Webster, ‘against that house sheaved in late yellow summer grass’

There is the difficulty of

my tongue – the muscle

of my culture over-writing yours:

 

where I stand

this time is

earth for now

 

here in the east

by a brown sea the

silted mass of Doggerland

 

dropping away

eaten by the

spring tides.

 

It has become

my home space: first

I came from the

 

chalk born

by a bluer

sea and shingle shifts,

 

deep dives into salt

and ship ways

a grey scaled child

 

and now I need to think

my self into another time

another speaking

 

this the

problem of my tongue-

if I use your words

 

will I mis-say what

you mean? Do I spin

them in, weave textiles

 

of seeming –

an appropriation like

some story theft

 

or myth borrowed:

feathering

a nest to utter a fluttered

 

stuttering form of

being – your griefs,

happiness or striving and

 

I will survey

your broken homes

your evictions engraved

 

in stones

the roofs collapsed

like hope carried

 

in rags, those

things which don’t

make sense without

 

your place. Food

snatched from a hearth,

a toy to calm

 

the child cloth-wrapped in

your arms,  all

that you spun and lost.

 

I feel unequal to this telling

my imagination might

push you further

 

beyond time and land-

your words, your lives, your

work and deaths.

 

I am writing them

with mittened fingers

wrong tongued/

 

whisper guessed

in the summer rain

obscuring everything

 

with versions of un

wrapping your days

in words two centuries away


Carole Webster, ‘Arichonan: wrong tongued/whisper guessed in the summer rain’