On the road to nowhere this August morning,

mistletoe flourishing in pines; butterflies, butter

yellow in the sun, rising in the softening air.

A woodland pastoral of hope, and symbiosis,

as the learned amongst are saying.

We are moving under guard, women, children, elders.

They are taking us to safety, they say. A better

place, less crowded than our ghetto

where families cannot breathe, our men

pursue their trades. Everything is hopeful

with the freshening air, the straight ahead,

the comfort of our gold and treasures in our cases.

Take it with you, they said. For your better days to come.

So a day of laughter, and soldiers with our children

on their backs. Of mistletoe and dancing wings.

Now they halt us in the road. The sun burns

on the way forwards. Gleams with the future.

Into the trees, they say. Rest in the cool.

We have water for the children. And so we walk

among the pines where someone has been tapping them

for resin, their needles soft beneath our feet,

And here we rest. There is talk of the destination,

of sleeping at nightfall.

Ahead there is digging, and lining of people

And silence, then moaning. And firing.

The blue bus is on the road to Kyiv.
It’s a Monday morning departure and is full
of those returning to their lives or taking new ones.
Refugees from exile in the Baltic – a nail
technician aiding beauty in Lithuania, an angry
woman shouting that the bus is early. Our
Google apps translate this as we go,
distracts us from the lime green store,
now blackened, twisted from a missile strike
that made the news back home.
We are interlopers on their journey. Have tickets
here and out to safety. So the land that passes,
striped greens and browns, is not ours,
but theirs. The engine shivers through our seats,
and the toilet scents the air with pine
and, faintly, piss. The road is arrow straight
as heads bent or nodding, think only
of the day ahead, the emptiness of promises.

April 2025

Ostroh, Ukraine

Down the sides of the street are the memorials.

Triangular columns, the height of a man, each side

a photograph of someone’s son, or daughter.

They’re harvested from albums, mobile phones,

picture frames from walls or shelves, and from

The battlefield. A street of smiles, and poses –

Some with held-high weapons, most in army gear,

all vulnerable with confidence. At their feet and sides

the flags of Country, Regiment, bouquets of flowers,

immortal in their everlasting blues and yellows,

and in reds of love. Sometimes a crowd gathers,

or the passer pauses to engage a date – the birth,

the day of death, the place. All that invincibility draining

into space and hope. And time and traffic passes.

Eyemouth, Berwickshire

It’s perpetual summer in our Borders’ fishing town.

No one has come to take away the flowers of youth

[to coin a phrase]. On the lampposts, memories of

Salmon Queens that stretch back into the pageants

of the past. Girls whose glamour has been decked

with showy gowns and sashes, now fading into

age, and local paper cuttings yellowing in drawers.

Hold them all, world. Cradle your sons,

Your daughters. Do not give them up.