Moss

Flight paths following plough lines
Beyond long horizons,
disappearing into haze.
Land as flat as the roar of traffic.

I am washed up on this island
of riotous hedgerows and fly tipped waste
Stripped bare peat land and swerving arcs of tyre marks.
I am sinking into the nowhere between places.

I do not flinch at hollow crack of gunfire.
We are over the border.
Between the lines.
This is a nation state of warning signs and fences.
Sunbleached hand scrawled threats to would be intruders.
Razorwire in the wilderness.
The distant growl of an opened throttle rising to a whine.

A principality of faceless metal barns, deep ditches and plants that leave welts and blemishes on springwhite skin.

An outpost of hidden glades, light and green and cool, silent.
Blossom fallen on sun baked ground. Blooming branches basking.
Undisturbed.