Topography of Emotion
The soft scratchy heather.
Pink and white
Beaten sky.
Green, gray, and lavender.
The sky rests on my shoulders as I look down into the small streams,
hardly visible between the clumps of heather—
Come find me.
The power of my calling.
See me, and feel the brush of my skirt
as I envelope you into the warmth of my dis-ease.
When you fall to your hands among the rocks and stones,
savagely worn by wind and weather—
when you curse me for your knees—
I wash you with the trickling of water,
rivulets meandering between stones and heather.
Sheep look at me.
Why are you not wearing a coat, silly daughter. You will catch your death.
Mother holds me as I stay down
on the mossy beds of heather—scratchy and soft—
the beautiful tiny bells of heather as I lay there.
A sea.
A mist of lilac and purple.
And grey.
The road to ruination.
I take cocaine in the car,
on the lonely heathland that I call my own.
No one but sheep, staring at me.
Why? I don’t know.
Cocaine is for talking to people I’m frightened of—
alien to me—
not for sitting, staring into the wilderness.
Caroline Perkins Wuthering Heights 2025. oil and oil bars on canvas.
When I was a child, I ran and played. I spoke to my twin as if to myself.
I felt sadness and joy I felt the unbearable sense of unfairness—of being alone.
I pleaded to a god to take me back, to be with my sister, who I felt would be the only soul to understand me.
I am in Nana’s bed in the morning. She and Mickey are staying the night—my dad’s mum and father.
I loved Nana. She understands me.
She feels my grief, a likeness to her own—her baby lost, born in June and died at Christmas.
The soul of my twin, reborn but to die in birthing.
We are joined by the beads of loss, each pearl being a tear of an oyster.
We walk to the tip of Filey Brigg.
The fear of being cut off by the waves.
The tide is rushing in, rushing faster than I can run.
Will I die? Shall I die?
I stop. I look out to sea.
Shall I stay? Shall I die? Will I die?
I stay. My mother is crazy, screaming.
I know she is mad at me.
I daren’t go back.
I stay.
The sea welcomes me, praises me, asks me to join her.
Soft but swift, she rushes towards me.
My father lumbers, dragging his legs into the sea, fully clothed.
He picks me up and wades back to shore.
My brother is crying.
My mother is fury, fire, and salty tears.
Caroline Perkins sketchbook work 2025. ink, charcoal graphite collage on paper
Caroline Perkins sketchbook work 2025. ink charcoal graphite collage on paper
I was brought up on the East coast of Yorkshire, the weather would beat down on me, consequently my resolve is gnarled and distorted like wind blown trees; So I resolved to be strong, fierce like a warrior—charging into battle when what you may have needed was gentleness, stillness, surrender.
I demanded to be by your side at each procedure at each discussion about treatment about your health. I don’t know if it’s what you wanted;
I never asked you.
I would interrogate the consultants, I was your cheerleader at good news, I was your armour when the news wasn’t so good. All the time there was a wide eyed confused and unbelieving child hiding inside.
Caroline Perkins recording of work at CAS artists takeover residency May 2025
When you told me you had cancer, my insides crumbled, avalanching through me until I had to fall to the floor on my knees.
You held me and with your determinedly cheerful demeanour told me “it’s ok the operation will get rid of it, it’s ok!” I rallied, I became focused and strong.
I’m always strong so many people tell me I’m strong.
You are everything to me.
You complete me. Without you, I am hollow—less than .
I love you with all of my heart. When you watched me dance, I felt your joy pour into me, and in turn I danced because of you. And now, I cry because of you too. Please, never leave me. If you can stay, stay! Stay STAY WITH ME!
we are swans / we will / one love/ forever we vowed -
you left me to swim alone,
You were my dark knight—noble, loyal, and full of quiet integrity.
I, your childish ballerina, I twirled and teased in delicate circles of Glee
Every jeté, every plié, every pirouette was performed only for you, a spell cast to keep your gaze upon me.
Caroline Perkins. A diptych, My Love Letter to you 2023. oil and oil bars on canvas.
I cling to you — never let me go!
I sense your diminishing form / I close my eyes to the weakening in your body.
You valiantly struggle through our life,
giving smiles / wishes of goodwill
as if your life depended on it —
to everyone around you.
Everyone feels seen in your presence.
No self-pity.
You perform the last months of your existence
like a pageantry horse.
Caroline Perkins Never Let Me Go 2024. oil and oil bars and collage on canvas.
The Wolf Became the Sheep
You went to the hospital like a lamb to the slaughter.
They carved you up.
Removed pieces of you.
Your body was chewed up.
They took most of your lung.
How will you sing?
How will you howl?
The wolf became the sheep.
Then you went—against my better judgment—
to have poison forced through your veins.
Flooding through your system.
Sick. Vomit. Nausea.
The sisters you didn’t know you had.
Taunting you. Torturing you.
Playing with you.
Keeping you company
in the days I was “giving you space”
(running away).
They took you away and slaughtered you
at the sacrificial altar of medical intervention.
You were given the all clear for two weeks.
The final straw.
Uncommonly aggressive.
Affairs in order.
You soldiered on—
unwavering in your stoicism.
But you followed the doctors’ advice without question.
Medication meant to numb you,
sedate you.
Living was becoming a chore.
I ranted and railed at the doctors.
Words like: “Overmedication.”
“Dehumanisation.”
“Careless lack of consideration.”
It was all to no avail.
You Died anyway.
Caroline Perkins Lamb to the Slaughter 2024. oil and oil bars on canvas.
I’m so cold.
My feet are freezing.
I huddle up, wrapping my arms around me, making me a stone.
My shoulders feel the damp of the mist, and my bottom cheeks feel melded to the earth.
Why do I feel so cold?
Does my heart not pump blood?
Does it pump the icy water of the rivulets of the heathland?
Will I die in this cold?
My head pounds with the rhythm of the thunderous wind—
like some arthouse band.
I sit with my companion: the void.
It sits, mirroring my shape.
Then it starts to crack, to unfurl, into a human form.
I recognise all my losses in the dark.
shifting / circling / morphing all those I have loved and lost—
and finally,
You!
But I’m learning.
the void isn’t a trap / It’s a threshold.
And the land speaks back.
Moor wind, wet soil, sky so wide it splits me open—
This is where I begin again.
Caroline Perkins panorama photo of work at the Chapel Art Studio residency. May 2025