Michael Harding

Bundoran is where I go to encounter the ghosts of the past. I can never forget my donkey ride on the beach, my mother by my side, when I was six

Performing a gig in Dublin with some amazingly talented young artists, I gripped the microphone and gave it socks

My little staples looked like a zip, or sleepers for a tiny train

The photo was taken when I was recovering from illness. I’ve seen better looking corpses

The wild edge of Canada was covered in snow and sunlight bounced off the white land

I’m not sentimental about nature. In fact I’ve always been fearful of it

I tried writing letters, but during lockdown they became too intense and sincere

Like any good actor, I understand the importance of costumes and props

My only refuge is my father’s bookcase, decked with icons gathered over many years

My late neighbour, Johnny, treated his livestock like pets

She was in an embarrassing fix: listening to nonsense from a stranger on the internet

I imagined myself like Saint Francis, a halo of little birds around me in a cloud of love

I ate my soup slowly, to prolong the conversation with the waitress

She was curious why I was doing yoga in bed at that hour. I had no plausible answer

January is a dangerous month for people inclined towards melancholy