White chalk hills are all I’ve known
White chalk hills will rot my bones
White chalk sticking to my shoes
White chalk playing as a child with you
White chalk south against time
White chalk cutting down the sea at Lyme
I walk the valleys by the Cerne
on a path cut fifteen hundred years ago
and I know these chalk hills will rot my bones
Dorset’s cliffs meet at the sea
where I walked, our unborn child in me
White chalk, gorse-scattered land
scratch my palms – there’s blood on my hands
