About the poet
Jo Shapcott (b.1953) is from London but traces her family roots to the former mining communities...
We name our years in numbers and behold, I said,
this new one hangs ahead, plump and divisible.
I poked my cold head round the corner of December,
whose bare evenings sang to me of the future,
until I could see all 365 days laid out from east
to west. A few things stick with me:
a sea view, night-time, lights across the by and by,
wet, black shapes, perhaps the heads of seals;
the Northern Line, glowing with afterworkers –
and someone humming, unless the future is a lie;
a laptop screen: keystrokes and the words expire,
metadata, prism, nourished, homeland, boundless
informant. My beloveds, I will see all of this
and I will leave it, in one order or another, to you.
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