Fifty odd miles from home
in a wind-blown, Atlantic field
she has us connecting poles,
guiding them into flaps, hoops
and eyelets, hammering pegs,
tightening guy ropes.
The groundsheet rips, the milk
turns sour, someone drops the eggs
and more often than not
we wake to the pock, pock, pock
of raindrops. She spreads
wet towels on brambles,
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keeps an eye on the tides
and watches us run barefoot
down the byroad to the strand.
Nothing rocks her belief –
a week at the edge of the ocean
will set her children free.
Today's poem is from Jane Clarke's new collection, When the Tree Falls (Bloodaxe)
