In my work I don't make anything I can hold in my hands,
it's like being a time capsule made up only of stories.
I like to imagine poems as some kind of repair shop,
where moments of lives once forgotten,
left to waste,
disgraced, 
are written back into existence.
As if just a sense of how it felt to be alive 
could call you home.

First comes the clean up,
the unpicking of fragments,
tenderly turning them over and over,
to see if we can somehow tell the same story 
another way.
Then comes the patching, re-crafting,
re-working and time.
So much time.
For things to set, to hold steady,
until this unspoken thing 
is brought into the light 
and enters the beautiful gallery 
of the world remade.