I played in this dirty hole throughout my childhood; in the English rain the earth smelt of dense, brown, wet garden. The garden is the garden where I planted my first seeds plunging my small fingers into the ground to make a hole for them, it is the earth where my precious marbles, begged and borrowed from my older brother, disappeared into the sticky clay, it is the dirt where my enormous father raked the leaves which fell from the trees in the Autumn into piles and where I ran and jumped amongst them. This is the earth of childhood where the smell of nature and its seasons was mine to remember.

Hannah Collins

Roses In Doorway

The roses have been left in the empty and closed doorway to record
the event.
The sheets also lie in remembrance of the past, they are freshly
folded and white and clean.
The doorway now closed and the place where only the perfume has been
left.
Stones, roses, sheets, wooden doors.

Hannah Collins

I laid out the newspaper and put the box of sardines closed on the
paper. It is very simply made, a plywood box just put together with a
few nails.
When I opened the box the sardines had left their stain on the paper
covering them and the box could be taken apart with just a little
effort.
The sardines eyes glint as if still alive but they are ordered,
silvery and still packed in salt the sea smell still on them.
Wood, paper, fish, salt, ink.

Hannah Collins