Eoghan Walls

Up The Bor­der

The London Magazine - - NEWS - Eoghan Walls

If they come ask­ing, tell them I’ve gone to walk the bor­der, where eight-year-olds used to know how to smug­gle diesel past the dragon’s teeth, as one field opened onto an­other,

up where a fly-tipped fridge bris­tles a ribcage of blue­bells, and you’re as like to find schoolkids tak­ing a feed of cider as a hush of forty-odd men urg­ing blood­lust from pit-bulls,

where hedges hide porn and barbed wire dan­gles knick­ers and Nelis swears he once got a girl fresh out of Mar­seilles to stretch bare­back on the tar­mac in the mid­dle of sum­mer

and the win­ter the Foyle froze over, sub­merged to its mid­dle, he found a fox in the shuck, its en­trails and spine un­cov­ered by jack­daws, ear-tufts and tail-tip blooming out of a pud­dle

and even though its small face was frozen in­tact un­der­wa­ter he got the sense that if he hacked out and thawed its pupils they’d be sharp as lasers with the fo­cus of cross­ing over.

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