June 8th, 2026
4:41 min read 1289 words
“I don’t know”
I seem to linger in the unknown
as not to fumble over explaining things
and be met with a confused look in return of my words
I can’t quite explain the compulsion,
I just know that it lives in me.
It flows through the ends of my hair.
Coarse like marram,
which whispers through the salt wash of cold air,
It sits within the soil trodden down by leather
and drys tough on wild hooves,
it resides like the ponies at Porth-Melgyn,
teetering on the rocks that make me trip over my words.
But what I get is not given,
it’s fastened,
its loomed from their hands to mine,
carried through practice,
lace made love,
Woven,
captured,
and noted with a blue biro.
The inexplicability rests in my chest,
and I think it lays there as it need not be disturbed.
I know it,
so why attempt to decipher a feeling so inherently mine.
I keep it folded in denim,
carried by a wooden heeled boot.
I think of Levy,
and with Deb’ alike,
“As the waves crashed on the rocks
and the wind numbed my fingers
I waited for something to happen,
Waiting for a revelation,
something big and profound
that would shake me to the core.
Nothing happened”.
The Dust settles and the Fever runs hot,
an Impulse pulsates,
an act of Double Game,
washed in bluets and woven in voile,
finished with lace.
Luke McLeod is a visual artist working with tactile analogue processes, primarily writing and textiles. Rooted in lived experience, his practice explores memory, identity, and place through documentation and craft-based methods of making. Growing up in Wales informs his engagement with language, personal narrative, and the relationship between process, materiality, and the handmade.
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