SF x WBF Writer in Residency is now in its second year!
This two part residency involves the writer immersing themselves in all things Spring Fling Open Studios and then presenting work in response to the event in May at the Wigtown Book Festival in September.
Young Buck in his shadow he’s cast his own lore self-portrait as a landscape I am Actaeon the Capelaw beast under whose branchy legs corrugated grasses sing syllables fleet gone narrow-backed he can’t project more than a pentameter or two before the wind startles still life into mov
Maker, of Golf Balls you find fragments shored against the Old Course ruins spoils of a walk you get to set the scale to lilliput a handful of marbles and brobdingag a set of randomes a Fylingdales and Menwith Hill founder-forger from native links you arc these harbingers of fair play
The Indefinable Nature of Water (after installation box by Silvana McLean) Sumar flód, high tide, water up to the shins teal over ripple-patterned sands krill spots the vatn, like damaged film Attention all shipping, warnings of gales in Bailey, Fair Isle, South East Iceland.
The Bird Inside The bird inside has built me a twig fortress through which no other person may pass. An overgrown chick it flutters and flurries trapped between wall and window. This clawing, scrabbling, vibrating reptilian thing. The bird inside longs to take its hollow bones
In response to Isabell Buenz’s paper flowers Past Pulling Petals Off The day my decree nisi dropped in I was alone in the studio. I lifted sheets of lawyerese, found myself tearing up page after page. I worked like a mad thing. Material instructs fingers, fingers give rise to i
In response to Katie Anderson’s box of glass golf balls Ball Games Morgan played golf with crystal balls. There was nothing explicit in the rules to stop him. Other golfers gradually realised how well he was attuned to the play of wind, the lie of the green. He’s trying to mes
Inspired by Sarah Keast’s “Iona North End Findings with Offering Bowls” I came, I saw, I pondered – In glacial time – Not verse nor rhythm Not scan nor rhyme But findings in a bowl Left as blessings to a past And a hope without a future In an absence that‘s so ol
Inspired by Isabell Buenz’s paper flowers Here are folded words Like closed wings on silent birds. Here are my folded words: Open them – Release these flowers in flight: These words are songs of birds.