Hanora

I don’t understand the rural spaces,
the places you grew up, with hawthorns
threaded in your hair, and rowanberries
staining your cheeks. No,
the urban slick, with cracked tumblers
breaking across the sky in points of new
architectural feats were all I knew
as a child.

You tell me that up in a cliff-top
there is a cave, where you stowed away
all that was important, before leaving
home. Three issues of an old magazine,
with paw-prints from an animal unnamed
across the covers. A plastic bag of conkers
and sycamore seeds. And something else
you won’t discuss, perhaps more
metaphorical in nature.

From the shore, you point to home,
and say that over there will be a man
with three toes and one eye,
winking at you with whispers of whiskey
on his breath. I say that sounds awful,
but you shrug, and call it necessary,
a part of a bigger picture – a painting
of a landscape I cannot access,
even with your sketching out the details.

I tip-toe round the back of you,
catch your earlobe with my tongue,
and tell you this is home now.