Seasickness – Leanne Moden
Here, there is clarity. A raw, persistent
truth – a cold disparity – hidden beneath
these tessellating fields. Fields stitched
by ditches to a muddy canvas. An after-
thought, a lost and lonely landmass.
Marshes marred by the harshness of
weather-worn trees. Each movement
of their aching limbs born of necessity.
That seasickness, which rises when
tracing that unaltered horizon, will
never fade. It is the price we pay to
come and stare into the eyes of gods,
to see ourselves, scratched and scattered
across unending skies and be reminded
just how much it mattered. The paling
moonlight dies, submerged and sinking,
but never fully sunk. No dampened way
of thinking, drunk on every part of these
wild and weary, sun-smeared fens. I’ll walk
each lonesome plough line, now as then.