Third prize

I belong here

by Gaia Holmes

I belong here,
Mistress of haar, Our Lady of the seals,
your angel, your fumbling nurse, your little star,
stumbling around in your size 10 wellies
and your clay-crusted fleece,
stubbing my toes on shadows,
walking to the village shop
to buy red wine and Complan,
waving at the locals,
letting the mad winds bruise my cheeks
and twist my hair into witch-knots

I belong here
cooking stone soup every day,
beach combing for hope,
scrumping kelp and driftwood to burn
in our evening fires,
cooling your brow
with lavender on a mouldy flannel,
singing love, love, love.

I belong here
with the cracked windows
the damp, your denial,
the wild and the raw,
the lying dog-eared books:
How to live to be 100,
How to outsmart your cancer.
stacked between the jars of pills
and the sticky bottles of Morphine
on your bedside table:
I belong here in December
with you and your three white cats,
grinding your tablets
to powder at midnight,
as the Orkney gales rock the caravan.

I belong here
with your dying
and every dawn sky
seething
and blistered
with stars.

haar: In meteorology, haar is a cold sea fog. It usually occurs on the east coast of England or Scotland between April and September.