Let your atlas spill open; pore over the contents and remember
In the times before cartography, all skies could see was water
The tides could not be news without the sticks and rocks to measure them
A sea cannot be said to turn if fish don’t swim against it.
Uncurl your feet. Let the branch of your spine
Arch back into shape as you move up the mountainside
They closed their eyes to what’s arising – so will you
The crowd waves wasted seagrass arms as you focus on the summit.
Unlace your shoes. Let your soles grow hard
As you follow bitumen ribbons draped like tatty hillside accessories
Your grandmother used to yearn – just want to get away from it all
Yet the skeleton’s gone quiet and you wish she’d rattle the bones.
Nothing but vertical gardens to mould the cheeks of buildings
Nothing beyond the jungle of some architect’s grand design
Something’s opened the door to the dollhouse and evicted all the people
Sapiens lie low now but the sappini grow tall.
This poem recently featured in a small creative magazine published through my university. A fun opportunity to play with homonyms!