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The ground beneath my feet
Julie Hogg
where I found third position,
for the first time, linguistics,
rhymed, ran home in the dark.
Talk to me about our Marsh,
Hepworth herons, yellow
rattle, ore, mandarin ducks.
I scattered my maiden name
along a slowly quaking fleet,
red-tides, Plover Street, Lady
Luck caravans, over sheet
metal chemical cocktail sands,
real viridian fisherman’s huts.
I thought I was intransigent;
in soul, yes Sir, thanks for that
tiny morsel of reciprocity, now,
I want to tie myself to a track,
in fissures, on pebbles, gravel,
asphalt compassion and I’m
small screaming, stop, stop!
But, you’re a driverless train,
and you won’t stop, will you
Author’s note: This poem is written with fracking in mind, from the perspective of the land in Coatham, next to the blast furnace in Redcar. This is my hometown.
Julie Hogg is a poet widely published in magazines and anthologies, and has an MA in Creative Writing from Teesside University. Her debut collection, ‘Majuba Road,’ is available from Vane Women Press.
Well Versed is edited by Jody Porter (wveditor@gmail.com)
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