Deflecting trepidation of growing up and wilting - like plants, I harboured nostalgia, reminiscing and idolising childhood. These memories are at once distant, and the most personal/intimate things; the sound filling up rooms when mum taught music lessons, is the thing I remember best. 

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Woven from intimate and personal sounds, such as mum's breath down the clarinet and microphones placed inside my mouth, sung by the earth mounds, the sound piece creates a perspective with distant foghorns, seagulls and birds such as the turtledove and cuckoo - both being species currently in decline in Britain. Considering the distance between reality and memory, prompted by Wordsworth's The Prelude, this piece reflects a continued exploration of how sounds can be metaphors, expressing this chasm. Wide, impersonal landscapes void of human presence cast against sounds created by intimate moments, ebb and flow, repeating the rhythm of memory recall, further echoed by the earth mounds' sinuous folds.

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The large artificial mounds of earth sing their lament, both sites of grittiness and a source of life, of burial and regrowth - their tragedy as phoneys, mirroring the short falls of rose-tinted recollection. From these mounds I was watering and nurturing small seedlings uprooted from home, encouraging them to grow from this site of artificiality and inevitably, to eventually rot and decay.