Who made you?
At thirteen I fell between the pages
of Wuthering Heights,
learned that I was made of moor and stone,
my mother’s penny catechism was wrong.
Why did God make you?
To walk where crooked trees stand lonely,
in his own country,
‘And that heaven did not seem
to be my home’.
To whose image and likeness did God make you?
Shaped and fashioned by slate grey rain;
stones speak to me in dry stack voices,
asking me where the heath ends and I begin.
Image Credit: Aike Jansen