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.

© Kyra Pollitt

Poem submitted as part of the Places of Poetry project, find out more here.