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I used to live on the chalk
where clay gives way
to the Roman road
en route to an Iron Age fort
Laid a bivvy bag
off the track squinting
into the night bling for meteors
and space junk Hiked for days
dodging sarn and tor
Woke to dew on blade of plantain
shoved aside by the
nose of a blind mole
Once I flew a homemade kite
with the boy who had the wrong smell
He tried to kiss me on Gallows Barrow
So how could I leave
my homeland webbed by
common path and famine row
where blackberries dared
to bleed over my teeth
When I’d loved nothing more
than swinging over worn stiles
chasing primrose trails
wiping sap of bluebell from my sleeve
On the road my legs seem
less reckless now
more tools of philosophy
And what of this is true?
The boy, the kite, the blood
of berry, how I can tell
a simple lie that weaves the yarn
of my country back into my story
The bit about philosophy
Source:
Poetry
(March 2015)
More from this issue
This poem originally appeared in the March 2015 issue of Poetry magazine
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By John Hennessy
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By Michael Derrick Hudson
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By Jessica Fjeld
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Julie Maclean is the author of Kiss of the Viking (Poetry Salzburg Pamphlet Series, 2014) and When I Saw Jimi (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2013).
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