About the Poem
About the poet
Tracey Herd is a poet who is concerned with perception and memory – in particular, how our...
What I Remember
is not the race itself but the evening
which disappeared in a tangle of diving
sunlight and nerves as I hugged myself,
chilled, and waited for the starter, bent
forward, the tang of mown grass
sprayed like water and the white lines
freshly painted on the spongy red track,
breasting the tape, alone and splendid,
queen of my own universe, then the medal
like a tiny sun catching the last of the light,
and feeling as if my heart would burst.
from Not in this World (Bloodaxe, 2015), © Tracey Herd 2015, used by permission of the author and the publisher
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