I come from there, but not from the country.

From a wee town in the north of a Lakeland, the furthest town from the lakes.

Some of my family live in the quiet of the countryside now.

Up there is a different light.

There is a dark blue-greenish charcoal grey tinge to the sky in the evening that would put you in mind

Of the troubles.

Not the capital T troubles necessarily but all the troubles

Of being human.

There’s a struggle to that northern winter sky.

The back roads are built for rallying through that darkness.

They seem to have less bends and twists to them than the roads down here in the south.

Like they are drawn through the wetlands and the hilly bits

With a straight line as the crow flies.

Plans made in an office in London or somewhere

I suppose. Who knows.

They seem to defy the will of the land itself,

The roads rip through like big spade marks in the bog.

Carving a culture in their tracks. 

By Helen McNulty 2019