Culture 13 September 2012 "Deposition": a poem by Judi Sutherland Sign-up I cannot claim this land is in my blood (although my marrow was an almost-match for someone in Belfast) but I’ve swallowed the place down; its water and its crops: its isotopes sequestered in my teeth; its basalt columns layered through my bones; all the rocks and trees and streams that fill the fields between the Lagan and the Bann. Geology that spilled out in my voice when I told you that the water there is blue. In England, the opinion was that I should get back where you came from, Irish git. Faint memories: but perhaps this ground, the Mourne mountains and the Antrim glens, that left me not quite Anglo-Saxon, might recognise its mineral print in me. This article first appeared in the 17 September 2012 issue of the New Statesman, Who comes next? SUBSCRIBE More