A creative response to Blue Tree by Jethro Turner
The sea-fed pool of your Cornish childhood, with its walls shifting like a kidney, pushing and pulling fluidly. A sinkhole opens up that you enter into. The ladder at the top disappears. Ossified escapes offer themselves, but with no clear route out. The way downwards follows your spinal column. You descend through your body alone, then up through your tail and back inwards again. There's a space that opens up: grey and stone-like, stoic and sad, but self-contained. It begins to crumble.