The Border

Who recognises this border?


A torn strip of shirt

Hanging on razor wire

In the spotlight of a searchtower

Fledglings feed and hush

Grass gapes through the broken

Concrete of a checkpoint


Do you recognise this border?

I’m standing by the bridge

Looking at the river

Imagining what line I’ve crossed

What lines I’ve yet to cross

Will she search me

Refuse my excess baggage

Grant me temporary visa

When does my exile begin?


Writing on the water

Drawing on it


After floods in Honduras

The roads were washed away

But a bridge was left behind

The river flowed around it

Blood flows now

Where it shouldn’t flow

The Atlantic Ocean grows

At the same pace as

Our fingernails


There is no border

Peter Jukes 2000


About this entry