PROGR artist in residence

I go back through the new-growth woods and pick things up like a child.
Bar. Fuchs. Hase. Luchs. Reh. Wolf. Auf und Ab. Wald und Wind und Wild.



The old folk tend to their allotments in the evening near the village hall
In Kirchenfeld. It’s not a bad way to end it all at all.


I light up when I see the Bunnhabhainn and Bruichladdaich in rows,
Out on the town en Suisse. And Talisker and Isle of Jura. It probably shows.


There’s Rhum up there and all. I’m getting used to the spiel.
Glenlivet, Glenfiddich and so forth. Glendale. Glenshiel.


I walk down a long Durchgang beside the Aare and under the ground.
I should be afraid. I feel sound. I feel sound.