I come from string, stringmakers
and mining pots, clusters on coasts,
boot in the backside of sodden sheep,
clipped coats and pared hooves. I come
from oil and grindings, sheen of pared gears
and rank stink of tyres melting on foreign soil.
I come from wind. Riding on drifts that swell
over skies that want no part of their trauma,
fallen things, falling things. I come from little birds
on garden walls, small archways cut so that children
could climb from one garden to another, calling auntie
wherever a woman is found. I come from chipped mugs
and fractured teeth, trampoline perils on the edge of the
park at night. I come from slick pavements, dark with ice
and the spotted tracks of cars struggling the ancient bends
in Christmas snow. I come from the moors, lands long cropped
now smeared with sheep and stuck on postcards I queue
to buy with fuel. I come from cement grey beach, then yellow
of builder’s sand, now white that glows to warn off sailors
creeping in at night. I come from words that aren’t my own,
wearing badges that claim names, snip birthmarks, swap
broken backs. I come from peace, to be always going, tied to
the ribs of a black mare that will never arrive where she should.

Image: Dương Trần Quốc on Unsplash