One of the houses you can see down there was, believe it or not, the house where I lived aged 0-3. It’s on the Isle of Erraid, on the West coast of Scotland, opposite the holy island of Iona, which more people have heard of. It’s a big sadness of mine that I don’t get to go there more often, in fact, I haven’t been back for years now. The truth is, it’s one of the most difficult-to-get-to places in the world.

I often start performances with a poem I wrote about Erraid. Mainly because I know it well and it’s a poem that works well in performance because of the sounds. Hence why it looks a bit out of place on the page:
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Morning Milking
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Six am: the day
a pale sharp blue
down the track
my hand in my dad’s
everything waking
in frosted outlines
me in my wellies
and bobble hat
walking the morning.
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Into the byre
sleepy and deep with dung
mixed with the mist
of breath in the moo
of the morning.
-
I stand on the gate
watch, as my dad
takes the teats
between fingers
and eases drips
from the udders
sending the shudders
up and down my spine
in time with the milking.
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And the droplets of milk
and of mud and of love
cling in the air
of the clean blue morning
stinging the two red dots
of my cheeks
bright as my boots
and bobbling hat.
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Silent, I watch
wanting to seal and stamp
this moment in an envelope
addressed to my older self
there, on the mat of a London flat
next to the semi-skimmed pasteurised
saying: you were once
this child of the morning.
You can become her again.
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This poem was published in The Freedom of Paper and Ink (Salt), the anthology of the school-based poetry project Write Lines, let by poet Sundra Lawrence. I worked on Write Lines in 2007 as Project Coordinator, which is where I learnt a lot of what I’m doing now on the London Teenage Poetry SLAM.
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