Up The Border
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.