Mizzling on a grey afternoon
in waves, the clouds wash
against the side of my house.
The ivy against the window taps,
like Cathy. “Let me in, let me in!”
An electric orange glow
is cast against walls. It promises
warmth and welcome but the chill
has hold and it pierces
all living flesh within.
Rooks call from high roosts
in the ash trees, their voices
heard here for centuries.
They have seen the village sprawl
towards the edge of the moor.
Houses and gardens taming
the bleakness of the hill.
The once dun coloured swidden
is dotted with lime, azure and
crimson in-comers—
but the rooks know.
It would take one turn
of this planet around the sun
to return that cultivation into bracken
gorse, elder and blackthorn.
A place for adders and moorhens
for the curlew calling across the edge
for mercy as he is witness
to his own extinction.
Lost like Cathy
longing for home.
Emma Rowell
Emma is an activist and women's rights champion. She owns and runs an independent bookshop in the North Pennines and loves writing poetry in her spare time. She most likes to write about life, love, and food.
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