Hello! I am writing this from the comfort of my own kitchen. And by that, I mean my kitchen in my home in England, not the kitchen I share with 139 other dorm residents. 😀 Yes, that’s right – I’m home! I didn’t say much about my trip home (in fact I said exactly nothing) because it was a surprise to my siblings. But now I am home and the surprise was successfully pulled off, and I get a whole delightful month at home. Which is a wonderful thing in my books. 🙂
Today’s poem does actually connect to my current life circumstances, in that it is about the beautiful west country of England, which I get to call home. Though the West Coast of the US claims some of my heart with it’s beauty, a large part of my heart is still here in England, amidst the rolling fields and moors and villages and woodlands that I have grown to love so very dearly. So, here is West Country Grave, written when I was homesick for the place I now am. 🙂
I bury myself in rolling rapeseed fields,
bright with oil and the almost
forgotten fairy tales my grandmother
whispered to me when I was young.
I bury myself in a patch of fading bluebells
in the woods behind my Father’s house,
where the rock doves laugh and coo
at the sight of a spring and violet sky.
I bury myself. Stretching out across heather moorland,
reaching for fistfuls of moss and wild river water.
The ponies murmur taps as they nudge
my chalky bones with their warm, woolen noses.
Ok, before I wrap up, let me clarify that I have no intentions of dying any time soon. 😀 It is poetic license mixed with homesickness and the memory of many lovely graveyards dotted across the beautiful countryside of my home – nothing more.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on this poem! Have you been to the west country of England? If you could be buried anywhere, where would it be? Let’s chat in the comments! 🙂