I’m the intoxicated gardener. I found myself drawn to these neglected roses in my neighbourhood. Lone and scruffy, their stoic presence among redbrick estates and sleepy tower-blocks kind of spoke to me. Their crooked stems, old and bony like hands that may have once looked after them, kind of reached out to me. I started photographing the roses and their perennial pals, got a bit hooked on their visual fragrances. I took them home as images and began to tend to them late at night. Their roots and mine became twisted in a new symbiosis, in a garden suspended somewhere between nature and imagination; a place I’ve frequented since a young boy, to dream and grow.