Dusk in Northumberland

 

I cannot throw away this faulty photograph

wonder if mother peeled off that oval sticker,

the one I remember:

Boots pronouncement of defects

on red eyes, on the ghosts of double exposures,

Now half forgotten

 

Framed by the stone walls scaling hills

I didn’t know that my great grandfather built or

the skill that made them stand without cement

 

The photograph is me,

I know my tiny figure wrapped up,

in that pale pink and blue cloth kits jacket

With a stuffed monkey in the pocket

The little red kite, string taut,

Proof of the wind that day

Cloud is most of the photo

The tail of the kite trailing left

The brightest flash.

 

I am but a smudge,

A pale corona of hair,

A bundled figure caught in motion

I can only guess the time of year from the dark grass

of the field that I am running on.

 

You wouldn’t see me unless this matters

it matters to me that in this fading light

he wanted to capture this

knowing it would be

one of the last things he taught me

 

I barely remember that stony cottage

I remember the hills I climbed

the Roman wall walked

The bear brought to the top of the hill

Fur wind buffeted as my anorak

The hills, like a shaken sheet,

unreal to a girl only used to

the endless ruler horizon of Norfolk.