My belly is a sack of grain
Raided for its sacred seed,
Torn and scarred by fingers
Thick with hunger.
My belly is a sleeping dragon
Hunched and hard and swollen.
Fire-starter from the deep sea bed
Tongue tied by domesticity.
My belly is an old crone
moon
Eaten away like an applecore
Shaped with mouths.
This gaping wound, her startled eye,
Which never shuts.
My belly is the white horse
hill
Remote and wild and stinging.
Anchor for the kites of children
Scored by strings of road and plough and grave.
My belly is Boscawen un.
Rattle hipped, flame haired, rising.
A circle of stone on a gorse strewn moor,
An hour lost somewhere dancing.
My belly is an unmade bed
Dreams imprinted ripples on water,
A tide of sheets around your head.
Until daylight calls and on waves
Of rage you swim.
