Accent
by Kyra Pollitt
Where Lancashire licks the lime crack,
as Cumbria curds the tongue,
that’s where I’m from.
Gasping my green
sharpened breath I burst
through Devil’s Gape — t’
fronding furred mound
pooling oxide red.
Now dribbling at Witch’s Tit,
now idling, vinegar brackish,
I taste bluebell, garlic,
cow parsley.
Hold a wild orchid ear
to the velvet bellying.
Smell the amniotic loam,
dark and fertile.
I am home.
Poem submitted as part of the Places of Poetry project, find out more here.