We came upon the

slowing traffic

of the fleeing war-torn

and stooped to stare

- below the legs

of the rooftop passengers -

at the dancing distance

of a baked metalled road.

Our eyes were wet and stung.

 

Our approaching gaze silent.

We released our pent breath.

The border had done

what most borders do-

shrugged us through.

 

We walked past sun glassed

occupants of cars and the

​rolled-up sleeves of lorry drivers

and passengers of crammed busses.

 

 Later that afternoon,

Jez turned to me and asked,

"Is this what it's like to be drunk?"

I sipped from the glass I held

I smiled as I slid my glass towards her...

 

words and foto T Carroll

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