It's Still Life

The Colour of Elsewhere — Poems from the Periphery

South Again — V

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— 25 July: A Lay-by at Denmark’s Border

A Log to Sit On

I’d have been happy
living here.

He agrees.

Though you’d be happier
in Sweden,
he says.

He reads me
like a doctor
walking
a step behind.

All I need
is a forest.

A pebble beach.
A log to sit on.

Waves
that know
the power

of their own voice.

We leave Denmark
to its beginnings.

Lunch
in northern Germany.

In the forest.

On a log.

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— 25 July: Welcome to Germany

a mirage
snakes across
the autobahn,

through cow parsley
on the verge,

and into
a cornfield.

roadworks.
divertions.

Vodafone
welcomes me
to Germany.

three arms
of the same family,

in different directions

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— 26 July: Lübeck to Köln

Lübeck.
Köln.

Driving south
into the sound
of rain
on the windshield.

Summer
is still green.

A field
of solar panels.

Shakira
and rain.

Wipers hop
across
the windshield.

Staugefahr!

We pass
two horses
in a box.

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— 26 July: Somewhere In Germany

Wheat stalks,
stubble.

Two men
riding bicycles
where wheat stood.

Corn taller
by two weeks.

Surprise!
Auto-flush toilets.
A child screams.

Germany.
Corn,
corn,
and roadwork.

A man
calls it urgent,
peeing
on the guardrail.

The boot (tailgate)
won’t close.

Oh,
yes it will.

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— 26 July: Charging

car charging
to 80% — so,

lunch.

Danish rye bread,
German ham,
and water.

drizzling.

charging
finishes
first.

‘Wind turbines kill birds,’
he watches one
stirring the wind.

‘Drop in the bucket,’
I say.
‘Cats kill
four billion birds
a year in the UK.’

still listening
to Danish Radio.

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— 27 July: Welcome to Belgium

tabletop grey.
cloud-filtered
sun.

dry air
and chapped lips.

Belgium.
we drive into
the first hint
of autumn.

fields
the colour
of drought.

‘A stray match
and all of Belgium
would burn too,’
he’s solemn.

I am quiet.
friends
in Málaga.

roadwork.
loose gravel,
dust,
traffic cones.

but no workmen.

monochrome cars
and lorries,
lorries,
lorries
like pearls
on a string.

Danish Radio
still finding us.

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— 28 July: Journey’s End

Sun-bleached fields
of Calais.

Entry.
Exit.

Dressed in black,
three men
run.

Their journey’s
end
or beginning.

They will always run
when chased
by a knife.

I wait,
passport in hand,
Calais immigration.

Queue
on queue
that divide us.

Journey’s end.