Poetry

I Cycle North

I cycle North and the wind is backwards
and harsh as ever in November.

I left behind high ceilings,
familiar tongues,
and dirty finger marked wallpaper.

All I had wanted was to bathe in the Sherbourne,
to feel a closeness to the silt.

I remember, red faced and tear stained,
that my Grandfather had left
Roscommon.

I know this story,
that he met her on his first day in Halifax
and found something in this new home.

I don’t understand what I am meant to be seeing
but I am curious and my skin is finally cool;
the wind can do that. 

Mollie Davidson