Footfall

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