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.

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.

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

I would like people to come into my Dreamworld and then choose to stay.

The human longing for story is so powerful, so primitive, that it seems like something not learned, but locked into our genes.

My first collection of poems was published by Bloodaxe Books, which was then a very new imprint.

When you are young you don't always realise how full of doubts everybody is.