“Over the last year I found myself living alone. I noticed a pattern. My mind would retreat back to Bradford. Travel back to something that felt solid and true and warm and brief. The poems came first, written mostly in my bed during homesick nights. The paintings came this last summer as fragmented memories aided by old photographs. 

I know every inch of the place. I will never walk up the concrete steps again but I close my eyes and feel shaggy carpet, hear clattering bells on the opening front door, the smell of old wallpaper drifts out and geranium perfume seeps in. I’m in the living room, from the armchair I see a flock of crows blanket the sky.



This was my home and I invite you in.”