Grief is the Thing with Feathers2019 - 2021
Tape, Gannet skull, Ash, Perspex
The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along the sea floor and the cold came down and the dark came early and the scavengers with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes. Out on the roads the pilgrims sank down and fell over and died and the bleak and shrouded earth went trundling past the sun and returned again as trackless and unremarked as the path of any nameless sisterworld in the ancient dark beyond.
Extract fromThe Road , Cormac McCarthy.