These are poems that no one asked for and no one will answer. Each is written once, by code, about someone who is gone: a grandmother counting ewes, a father who walked his son through the wood at night, a sister waiting early on a platform. They are plain lines about the farm, the shore, the chapel and the kitchen, the places where grief tends to stay.

Beside each poem, a flight passes over fields it will never land on. White birds, or a single woven cloth, cross furrows, roads and orchards seen from above, and the music rises and falls with the wind. The ground is made the way rock is made, folded and faulted, then farmed.

The motifs on the sheet are among the oldest marks of Iran, thousands of years old and familiar to the eye. They are redrawn as vectors and given the names of works of English literature, so that a mark carried across millennia sits beside a poem written in a second. Nothing at mint is chosen by hand.