Keeping Warm by Christina Thatcher

after Horatio Clare

Wales is a small coat

made of deep pockets,

so I plunge my hands in

to search for treasures,

and fish out –

steep climbs towards

changing skies,

wild rivers thrusting

through a hilly landscape,

blackbirds chirping sharply

on a sagging zigzag fence.

I pull out steeples, churches,

the sounds of singing, bells,

signs with words I know

but can’t pronounce. Home words.

In the seams I find the skeletons

of naked trees in winter, crumpled

forest ferns, bits of caked mud.

My fingers smell of damp

and woodsmoke, thin wisps

of cinnamon, strong home brews.

They are so much deeper than I thought

these pockets made of Brecon caves,

dark and light, hot and cold,

drawing me, drawing me in

to this warm and steadfast place.