In winter, the land rests. The ground digests the fall of last years leaves and only the earthworms are active, stirring as deep as ideas. There are green things to come, but not yet. Not yet.

This is an important time for those of us who make things for a living. The flow of creativity needs times of fallow also. Times to take stock, not just to make stock.

Times to look backwards as well as forwards.


For us, this means doing some less than sexy things- sums, spread sheets, reviewing web sites. Tax returns. Grappling with the dreadful essentials.

For me (Chris) it is also a time when we can dance with the glorious possibilities of the new. Perhaps we can allow objects to shape these ideas.

Like this bird. You might be hearing more from him as the year unfolds.


As far as he knows, Bird is the last of his kind.

No-one was left to name him, so he is just



Bird sometimes wondered what family felt like

He squeezed his eyes to remember as hard has he could remember

But only remembered being



Bird stood high on a hill and raised his beak to the breeze

He sucked the scent carried in from the stir of the sea

Where whales sang.


Bird knew that somewhere out in the big deep blue

The Great Spirit who made the world

And holds it all together

Was swimming still


Bird decided he would never be lonely

Ever again.


But winter is short. The pressures of the new season are calling us. We have just heard that we have been accepted to exhibit at Potfest which is both exciting and daunting.

Better get back to the workbench…


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