At the Border
by Gwil Williams
Finding the border was easy.
Crossing it wasn't.
National flags greeted our approach.
It was where the map said it would be.
It was where the road stopped.
Radar was a timely sign that we were there;
painted olive-green to match the surroundings
scanning in the direction they came from
last time with their surprise attack.
An absence of vegetation followed;
concrete watchtowers with slits for eyes
appeared on barren hills amid curls of
razor wire barring the way to the minefields.
In the last village before the border
at a small round table
outside a bar
three men sip coffee
from small cups;
exchange sporadic remarks
concerning a lottery ticket;
you couldn't call it a conversation.
At the first hint of rain they move
It's the same on the other side.
They have their border paraphernalia
Here is an old mirror.
This crack from top to bottom
is no man's land.
Gwil would love to hear what you think of his poem - email him now
Back to Poetry Competition