My bones the timber.
My skin the clay.
And you,
Who uprooted,
Took an axe to the wooden veins and created something new.
A roof over your head, a warmth that could only come from carbon burning carbon.
You,
Who dug to the core, ripping flowers and weeds from the riverbed until you could feel the
spongy sand and silt beneath your fingers.
Something you could mould,
Something with the right consistency to plaster over the cracks, seep into the founds and
fortify.
You,
Who recognised the abundance and kept taking, feasting on my body and blood as if in
reverence to your own cleverness, and my own carelessness.
You,
Who constructed it all, a crow picking a carcass clean.
Savouring a full belly and a fresh kill.
Before moving onto the next.
Rebecca Harrigan is an Irish poet and writer whose work examines environmental degradation, bodily imagery, and the fractured relationship between humanity and the natural world.
More work by Rebecca Harrigan
Tel: 028 7126 6946
Email: hueditor@theverbal.co
Verbal, Stable Lane and Mall Wall, Bishop Street Within, Derry/Londonderry, BT48 6PU
companyCopyright © 2026 Honest Ulsterman