Though I am not a painter
this is to be a portrait
of my parents and my sister.

You too I guess
have studied the surviving starlings

as they swoop and whistle
by the snack trailer at Moorfoot

I loved the tales Luke told me of starving writers,
and the sacrifices they made following their hearts.
Philip K Dick eating dog food. Bukowski’s candy bars.

My compass – its needle set with a sliver of blue stone – spins and spins. Breath mists my snow
goggles. I wipe them endlessly. Even in these thick seal-skin mitts my hands are frozen. I have been
no place as still as this.

seek justice
and you hold
a seashell to your ear

hear

He cuts. I lie still, teach myself
to dream of St David’s Bay,
seaweed strewn on incoming tides,
surfers slice big waves in half.

I pull a dress over my head
calm foggy blue linen
sleeved in lavender,
press frizzed hair

 Vigo in Autumn is still a furnace
the nightjars
  roost on ram-tarmacked roads
and hot guapas carrying fish baskets

Begins
in a bubble
strained by chalk.
Where the brim-full hill cries,
weeping tracks merge