Michael Saunderson


1972 EAST


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.





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.