Commissioned to respond to an area of eroding peat in the Black Mountains which was damaged by a mountain fire in 1976, I walked up the mountain, Pen Trumau, repeatedly with an image of home (a chair) on my back.

This pilgrimage of sorts offered chances for dialogue with other walkers, the mountain, sky and bog.

How did we come here?
Does meeting leave us changed?
Disarmed by the sublime, can I understand this loss?
Is it enough to witness and attend?

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