She was born on a mountainside
She was born on a mountainside,
The thirteenth child, bellowing her
Presence to the rocks and goats. They
Tied her umbilical cord with
Whatever nature laid to hand -
Grass, or a vine, or her mother's
Hair. Cut it with a stone. Quelled the
Bleeding with ash and rags, and her
Cries with practised let down. Fifty
Years later, bewildered in a
Heated classroom, she tells the tale
Of how her husband threatened to
Kill her, just last night. Her legal
Aid doesn't cover the cost of
Good advice, and the police are
Only interested in crime.
We fill in the paperwork that
Will prove he did it, if he does,
And everyone tries to pretend
It never happened. But then there's
Nigella Lawson in her posh
Frock, and she was born on no
Mountainside; if it could happen
To her... Then again, people say
Things all the time, and isn't it
Easier not to get involved?
Mother mountain is half a world
And half a life away, and her
Orphan children know their own way
Home. There are no wild midwives here
In England's green and pleasant land.
