There are places
we can’t leave behind
because they get
into our veins.

The half-land. half-sea
estuaries of worm-pocked
mud and samphire,
long-legged birds
and tall swaying reeds.
Or the piney forests,
hollowed ground matted
red by needles. And the
sheep-swept mountains,
with sweet heather
and dank bracken.

Places we grew in
that grew in us.