The sinister sound of the deafeningly quiet

fills the frightened, leaden black skies

and as the border draws closer,

the rat bags cowl and skulk

in their misbegotten dens and Waterloo Station

is a million miles away,

London is a million steps distant and the channel,

the long sleeve that separates us from absolved culture is dry,

spent and full of wondrous starving starfish

hell bent on retribution;

we cross the border

in our rag tag finery, our mockingbird feathers and brutal denim,

half peeled, half stitched jackets…

we cross the border and people find us strange and alluring,

we are the creatures

of the loudspeaker

and wavering lyric,

and we are happy in our madness.

Ian D. Hall 2016