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.