The Lonely Places

by Emma Danes

They weren’t to know. I’ve taken years
to track a safe path through my head

those tricks like tussocks of heather
to skirt unreliable thoughts

the soft suck of all the lonely places,
their deep throats, quick swallow.

Out here, a fistful of earth bleeds
water, fields wear a shroud of rain.

You can see the ploughed ribs poke through,
the grass like straggled hair, the gulls.