Harvesting rice near the borderline,
sedentary spine smarts from paddy field graft.
Sore calloused hands gesticulate
in cultural exchange over cabbage bowls.
Borderline conscious counting stars,
trapping words in haiku that daybreak may recall.
Shouts echo round the valley, tumble down
terrace walls, stand as masked raiders, smell of aggression.
Gunshots blister the village peace,
companions pitch over, blood clots the fields.
1982 NORTH EAST
Tent pitched in
the Borders. Borderline
conscious, breathing last
night’s smoky damp
embers. Cold stream
wash. A shout
of agony barks
in the silence.
One leg sliced
on barbed wire.
Blood stained stream,
memories forked over
then nausea. Only
borderline over it.
Michael Saunderson works as an IT Manager in a large engineering company. A regular at open mic events in South Warwickshire where he lives performing sensory, descriptive poetry that is vivid and evocative.