THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2002
this coast where Ulysses, a Sunday
sailor if ever there was one, might
have landed by mistake, the motorway
line, through miles and miles of orange trees.
is rocking through the heat and dust,
Each speeding car repeats
The sky is blue, once more, again, again.
no elevations: if you look much closer, spikes
Fires burn on rubbish heaps. A Coca-Cola can
isolated amongst flat roofs and breeze–
block houses, picks up its baseball bat
The train stops. A palm tree rusts
No one gets on or off. Next to the
listening ears clamber up each other's
Short swords fold. The man next to me
his bread. His face is beautiful and tired.
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