We are very pleased to have welcomed Sarah Wordsworth as our poet-in-residence for much of the year. Her thoughtful presence and extensive horticultural knowledge was both a joy and an asset to all of us.
Here is some of her writing inspired by her time at Plas Bodfa
The Illusion of Water
It is 10am and we are shrouded in mist. I can only just see the boundary of the next field. The sheep are slowly dissolving out of existence. I too feel shrouded in mist. It is one of those days when discombobulated is the perfect summation of my temperament. My spirit is misty, directionless, lying heavy and low in my body. I am just beginning to appreciate the fullness of “lifted spirit” and in this hazy disquiet my mind races, searching for an answer, a remedy. All I want to do is walk the shore. The steady lap of the waves rocking me, and the haunting flute of the curlew releasing me from this numbness. Each note magically unlocking something inside which quickens my senses, wakes my mind, brings acuity and motivation.
But I have work to do.
But I can’t work because I’m washed out, like water spilled on wet ink. My spirit is too thin. Dilute. Dispersed. I could sit here and be unproductive, chastise myself for not fulfilling my duties of the day – or, I could go! For a little while? Restore myself.
Yes
So, here I sit, in this temporary amnesia where the mainland is forgotten. One trouser leg bears a triangle of damp which will dry with a salt encrusted tide line, as sure a sign of guilty indulgence as a powdered sugar speckled lip. I had bravely traversed the rapidly flowing stream which dissected the beach and walked on until I found a rocky perch. A heron hunches just beyond the tide line, on a rock, on its own little island. The same desire for solitude.
Aberlleiniog Beach copyright @ Sarah Wordsworth 11th February 2026
Switching pens, switching pages. The speckling in the air was attempting to erase my words too. I needed something drier and the robustness of a ballpoint.
I photographed fossils as a parcel of oystercatchers wheeled low over a sandbar. So engrossed in my search I only realised much later that my right hand was holding a solitary glove. Cursing, I retraced my steps and found it lying forlornly like some washed up sea creature from the depths. My eyes switched from the enormous expanse of grey to the tiny flecks of colour and texture in the shingle. There should be mountains before me. Only the crumbs are scattered around my feet.
Fossils are the life, death, eternity, wisdom and folly of the Earth displayed in snapshots for us to decipher. They were buried and exhumed by forces of indescribable power, their metamorphosis more complex than that of a caterpillar to a moth. I want to become a fossil one day, to become rock, not ash. To move and flex with the slow determination of continents and be carried through the strata, exploring and experiencing what I cannot do in life.
The Heron is alert now. Neck extended. It takes flight so low its wings must dip the still waters of the Strait.
I can’t see the tide moving. The sea actually looks like a painting. Were it not for a distant slosh of kelp I would believe that time had frozen. Even the birds dare not breathe.
A gull breaks the trance. Of course it does.
The maritime diorama exhales into motion. A low honk of geese is layered beneath caws and pips, whistles and cries, all muted in this descended cloud.
The turn complete, it felt like a signal for me to rise too. The heaviness had lifted to make way for a peaceful openness. I was ready, at last, for the day.
I crunch over rocks and shingle with comfortable familiarity. My feet know the way, are accustomed to the unpredictable substrate. Limestone cobbles weathered to a weighty handful. Shards of green granite. Gleaming scribbles of white quartz carrying secret code. Burnt and rusty sandstone pellets. Microcrystaline granite which has had all of its sparkle polished away into grey obsolescence. Glistening black buttons. Cubes of blood red.
Some will be jet. Some will be jasper. Some of the red is so glossy I go to my seven year old self prodding anemones with curious fingers. They all tempt me like a pick-and-mix counter. I want to scoop them up. Fill my pockets. However, time and experience has taught me that all I would be left with is a disappointing array of dull brick and charcoal. You can’t take them away from the master conjurer, and the element of water is full of tricks today. I have watched it all, and even though I know how it is done, I have no desire to go behind the scenes and break the spell.
I am simply enjoying the magic.
Join Sarah on:
Substack : @joyousrebellion
Instagram : @sarah.wordsworth.creative
Website : creative-wellbeing.co.uk