Julie Maclean

I used to live on the chalk where clay gives way to the Roman road en route to an Iron Age fort Laid a bivvy bag off the track    squinting into the night bling for meteors and space junk   Hiked for days dodging sarn and tor Woke to dew on blade of plantain shoved aside by the nose of a blind mole Once I flew a homemade kite with the boy who had the wrong smell He tried to kiss me on Gallows Barrow So how could I leave my homeland webbed by common path and famine row where blackberries dared to bleed over my teeth When I’d loved nothing more than swinging over worn stiles chasing primrose trails wiping sap of bluebell from my sleeve On the road my legs seem less reckless now more tools of philosophy And what of this is true? The boy, the kite, the blood of berry, how I can tell a simple lie that weaves the yarn of my country back into my story The bit about philosophy