SCRUBLAND

A sort of scrubland, sandy yellow

Hazy, then bright, uneasy distance

A hut blooms stark red flowers

A thin grey snake coils to strike

The driver; long haired, fervent

Swings the wheel to turn hard

The other, a hot-eyed shadow

The guide, cap pulled too low

Unionist rebel, all political anger

Pamphlets flutter on the floor

Crumpled, broken butterflies

The rutted roads, death seeded

With the skeletons of vehicles

Shaped, sculpted by deadly artists

Then, a spotter plane swoops low

An ominous eagle; we are warned

Unwelcome visitors near the lair

Across the blood line, slicing Nam

North from south, in a freedom run

———

Poem: Ryan Cresswell
Image: Markus Spiske Unsplash