There’s a photo I took of Phil Judd walking
up the hill to his little shed where he still
makes the  best noise. He’s a much older
man now than when he made most of

the music that still blows my mind. But I’m
much older than when I first heard it, and
every time I listen it feels like a new first time.
If I ever write the book that I can already visualize

I’ve got my first chapter.  I’ve got my final words too.
They sit in my head and break my heart most days.
This week I heard a brand-new album by this tin-shed
genius; he’s only just made it. Not enough people

will listen to it. But I listened and stared
at that photo for nearly an hour. I know now
what I must have figured when I decided
to take  that shot: I’ve found my back cover.