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Bardsey Island
by Victoria Field
On Bardsey Island, I build a bivvy
from my baby’s bones
and let the white wind whisper to me
through its gap-toothed walls.
My baby’s ear is a shell
washed up onto the shore
telling me hey diddle diddle as the sea
chuckles the pebbles around my feet.
On Bardsey Island, I gather the souls
of the good and the bad and the damned
and play them face-down like patience
to trick the world into making her whole.
A fat red heart comes rolling towards me
surprised, like an adder in the bracken
and her smiles bounce through the clover
to the chink of spades in the flinty graves.
From Bardsey Island, to make it all come right,
I set sail in a coracle to Cornwall,
went spinning with the flying fish,
then walked the dusty road alone to Rome.
Countries popped up, colourful as picture books
My knees bled on the stairs to Roquemadour
But still, fee fie fo fum, my Bardsey baby is no more.
The angels have won and taken her home.
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