On silence, and what it makes room for
Three short meditations on the silence that precedes sound — and the harder, fuller silence that follows it. Written on the train to Inverness, December.
Sacred compositions · Edinburgh · Est. MMXIV
Compositions for stillness, solace, and the slow hours — made in a small room in Edinburgh, and offered, gently, to the listener who is ready to receive them.
My work begins, as most true work does, in a small room. A piano older than I am. A window looking north, onto slate roofs and the long Scottish weather. I sit there, and I listen — for hours sometimes, before a single note is offered. What comes through is not mine, exactly. I try to arrange it with enough care that it might find you, wherever you are, and sit with you a while.
“I do not compose to be heard. I compose so that the listener is, for a moment, more deeply held.”
This body of work — seven principal compositions and a growing archive of shorter meditations — has taken twelve years to make. It is offered, freely and without ceremony, to anyone who needs an hour of quiet: to carers, to mothers in the small hours, to those in grief, to the dying, to those learning how to begin again. The music does not intervene. It simply stays.
If something in this catalogue finds you, I am glad. That is its whole purpose.
Each composition is a complete listening journey — to be heard in a single sitting, with patience, in a low light. Runtimes given are for the long-form studio recording; shorter meditations drawn from each work are indexed separately in the dispatch.
A slow benediction for the blue hour between dusk and dark. Piano, breath, one quiet voice — returning, leaving, returning.
Five movements, written in letters to a friend in her final months. Scored for piano, cello, and the space between them.
A long single arc for prepared piano, field recording, and slow choir. The first of the three sacred works.
Recorded at St Mary's, Haddington, at the end of a long winter. A single held chord, returning, for forty-one minutes.
After the fourteenth-century mystical text. Eleven movements. Voice, drone, and a single bell, struck once at the opening and once at the close.
A commission for a hospice in the Borders. Designed to be played, at low volume, for the full hour around sunrise.
In progress. A public dedication to those carrying grief in silence. First movement to be released late 2026; the whole, in time.
III. The listening room
If you are new to this catalogue — start here. Lower the lights, set this down. The piece will find its own way.
Three short meditations on the silence that precedes sound — and the harder, fuller silence that follows it. Written on the train to Inverness, December.
A rethinking of the vocabulary around sacred music — and why the words we use to describe the work can, quietly, interfere with the work itself.
A direct note to the person who has come here in grief, or fatigue, or simply needing a quieter hour. No instruction. No advice. Only company.
A small season of live performances in chapels, archive rooms and acoustically generous spaces. Ninety minutes, no interval, candlelight only. Audience limited to the size of the room.
Recorded long-form journeys, released quarterly by post and by stream. Each built around one of the principal compositions and a short written companion.
A small number of private commissions are accepted each year — for weddings, memorials, and threshold moments. Each composed in correspondence with the person requesting it.
The studio is a small room in New Town, Edinburgh. Post arrives slowly; electronic letters are answered in the order they land, with care. For commissions, concert enquiries, licensing, or simply to say the music reached you — write here.
I read everything. I do not always reply quickly. But I read everything.