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