High Riggs | James Caruth

No, this is the cruellest month.
January, the old year passed on,
the sky over High Neb
emptied of light.

From off the valley a wind
edged with ice
stirs the couch grass,
the earth is pungent with the dead,

my head suddenly full of voices
and faces I can’t put a name to.
I sit down by a grey-green wall
to watch a dog sniff a trail by the hedge,

both of us slipped the leash, searching
these borders for a scent of home.

From James Caruth’s sequence ‘Tithes’ in the Longbarrow Press anthology The Footing. Listen to James Caruth reading this poem on location in Bowcroft Cemetery, Stannington, Sheffield:

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