Suffolk

On home turf
or so the Earth should feel under heel
but doesn't,
it shudders, as if cracking under the pressure
of my being, judders  
with the weight of a history tangled
as if roots bound and sodden in a pot, weakening the stock,
on home turf, as if watching recorded reruns on VHS by candlelight, in a house left empty too long, as if the roof is sinking,  
as if the ocean isn't there  
because it isn't,  
all mud flat and pine beneath the soles,
slate scarcely seen,  
bacon bait on lines for crabs, cows in the fields, boats in the harbour but nowhere decent to submerge oneself.  
My health, as I've come North becomes more Southern than it was when I was South but heck
I'm here with a purpose,
neck out on the line  
for someone in mind who would come to me
if the need was mine
but it's hers,
suffered a brain bleed, stroke, induced coma, and I'm moaning about having to exist is Suffolk, some folk  
don't realise how good they have it
and I'm a pessimist in my breeding
but came at speed to seed a little goodness, batch cook for her freezer, wash her bedsheets, paint her nails, hoover, walk the dog, not weep into her arms about how we almost lost her and I hate being so far away, that's not okay.  
She's a survivor, she helped me
survive many a time, years and years ago
when it was only Suffolk and I and our thicket of weak roots,
stay for a week
seeking to induce a little joy
and then edge quietly away.