I grew up with the North Yorkshire Moors as my playground. I can remember my friends and I used to pretend that there were wolves on the moors and that they were after us. This beautiful memory and the sombre thought of losing a sibling to a mental illness is what sparked off the idea for this poem several years ago. You can also listen to a recording of the poem here.
Deep Trauma
Your body has suffered deep trauma
and they’re not sure you’re going
to wake up from this clot of sleep.
I hold your little finger, the way I did
when we were kids and you would say,
‘hold my hand so the wolves don’t get us.’
I’d convinced you there were wolves
on the moor, hidden in the heather, waiting.
I want them to find the hospital, pad along
the fiery white corridors, doctors thinking
they’re a beautiful hoax. I want them
to come here, to your room.
My heart has developed new ridges
and canyons over you. I can’t remember
the last time it felt smooth.
Before the crash, before I saw
you destroyed by fog and a hot burst
of difficult conversation, I told you
it was time to drop the depression,
time to sweat through the withdrawal.
You’d told me you weren’t ready,
that it wasn’t time.
I rolled my eyes, turned away
while you fell backwards again
into the battlefield.
We’ve all agreed in the turning off
of your life support machine.
Quietly, you slip over, your features
more fragile than I’ve ever seen
and tranquil.
In my fit of mid afternoon dreams,
you’re on the moor dancing barefoot,
and there are wolves with you.