I can remember being in my pram: children stayed in their prams much longer then than they do now. A big bouncy pram with black covers and a hood with metal clips that could trap your fingers. I was looking up at my sister who was sitting on the pram seat, with her back to me.

If the garden of Eden really exists it does so moment by moment, fragmented and tough, cropping up like a fan of buddleia high up in the gutter of a deserted warehouse, or in a heap of frozen cabbages becoming luminous in the reflected light of roadside snow.

Poets go through a very tough apprenticeship in the use of words.

Those who try to obliterate the past are injuring the present.

Finish the day's writing when you still want to continue.

For you where never my blood sister so no more shall I call you little sister

A problem with a piece of writing often clarifies itself if you go for a long walk.