My country

by Jo Bell

takes years to find me, comes by water
in its own sweet time, doesn’t mind much
if I lag or fall behind; never waits.

We meet in shallow waterways
in clay-and-crow land, beyond words
like Worcestershire or London.

This has been the finding of me; this country
without self; its private happiness,
its snoozy dawdling at city-back or meadow.

We know each other just a little –
it, the thing that laid me down like silt;
me a momentary factor, cell within the leaf

within the lively forest,
adding one small dot of matter
to its wood-slow happenings.