This slow morph into Yorkshire stone
When she swapped sides
of the Pennines
she found home.
She knew
the walls of millstone grit
were each unique.
But she didn’t hear
the calls of those compressed within.
For they were content.
This is how it starts
with a ravenous drinking
of wide valley skies.
She was fascinated
by the way her rounded shoulders
squared out, her skin roughened.
Long tow-path walks,
legs muscled by hills.
Weir-side picnics.
She had a green tinge
and began to wear gloves year round
as her nails crumbled.
She saw the gifts
of a sunset horizon,
the wuther of Marsden moors.
She was shrinking,
measured her reduction
against the doorframe.
She was charmed by juvenile herons
finding their feet, a leisurely kingfisher,
goldfinch visiting for pumpkin seeds.
She saw the light change.
Tracked the valley moods.
Revelled in thunderstorms.
Then, she was ready to become brick
and one morning her son
found she was gone.
On her bed,
a block of clean stone,
imperfectly hewn.
He carried her to the space
where donkeys tear
the air with braying.