We live on the lower slopes of Titterstone Clee Hill in South Shropshire. Our house straddles the ever-shifting boundary (sometimes less than a vegetable patch wide) between what is shrouded in mist or cloud and what is clear. Between the seen and the unseen. Between what is perfectly rendered by the eye and imperfectly remembered by the mind’s eye. This is the space that many of my poems spring from.
Kite
The Hill: you, me, and dad
wearing the green jumper
that still smells of him.
The kite: an orange lozenge
of ripstop nylon
skin tight on a wooden cross.
Me: running fast
enough to take off
but bound by string
to earth.
Your laugh sticks in my throat.
I cough to clear it
but it’s in my head.
The kite lifts a little
Then nosedives through its arc
and lands
with that whipcrack you hear
out of sync like
summer lighting. One spark and
This whole dark scene
Silvers for a second
And is gone
Blacker than before
The thunder.